


The Uncanny Valley

by dracox_serdriel



Series: Series 3: Unfinished Business [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A Mortuary Uprising, Abduction, Alternate Season/Series 03, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anderson Forensics, Assault, Attempted Murder, Awesome Molly Hooper, Body Snatchers, Case Fic, Dead Sherlock, Decapitation, Forensics, Gen, Homeless Network, Imprisonment, Interrogation, John Makes Deductions, Kidnapping, Lost and Found, Missing bodies, Mistaken Identity, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Molly makes Deductions, Multiple Cases, Mycroft's Meddling, Mycroft's Umbrella, POV Multiple, Sally Donovan Appreciation, Season/Series 03, Secret Identity, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Story: The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger, The Big Picture, The Decapitated Man, The Hunt, Things get personal, Transmigration, identity theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracox_serdriel/pseuds/dracox_serdriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After failing to find The Engineer in Salcombe, Sherlock Holmes continues his work dismantling Moriarty's network, and Mycroft brings a related case to his attention. Back in London, a man is murdered, decapitated in a body bag that lands on Molly Hooper's table, and she becomes a target of a criminal conspiracy. As the trio works to identify the parties behind kidnappings, murders, and missing bodies, they wind up attracting the attention of Gregory Lestrade, who wonders if his old consulting detective isn't really dead after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Mortuary Uprising

Molly Hooper was at the end of the worst day of her life.

_It all started with that decapitation._

The thought occurred to her as blood slid down her chin and onto her neck. She wanted to wipe it away, but right now even the sound of her breathing was too loud. She couldn't risk making any noise from moving.

The decapitated body, though, that's where this all started. Molly was certain of it now.

 

 **About a week ago** , Molly Hooper ducked into her autopsy room slightly behind schedule. She had been held up at security because her card didn't react, or whatever nonsense the guards were on about. It had taken them nearly thirty minutes to sort it.

Samuel, her lab technician for the day, jolted to his feet when she entered.

"Dr. Hooper," he said. "I almost left, thought – "

"Sorry Samuel," she said briskly. "Bit of a late start. I was told they already brought the body in."

"Yeah, about an hour ago," Samuel said, indicating the body bag. "Told me not to open it till you got here. Evidence and all."

"Right then," Molly said, getting her bearings. "Will you prep the body?"

Samuel nodded and started unzipping the bag. Molly glanced over the paperwork quickly. Thirty-three year old male found dead in the men's room at a local bar.

"So initial reports said cause of death was cardiac – "

"Decapitation," Samuel said quietly.

"Sorry?" 

"I dunno what that paper says, but this man? He's decapitated. And is this right? Is this supposed to be like this?"

Samuel had shrunk back, holding up his hands, which were covered in blood. She assessed the body bag. It contained a man and his separated head, along with several pints of blood.

"This is all wrong," Molly said. "Samuel, don't move, just say there." She turned and yelled, "Security!"

"Security?" Samuel repeated. "I didn't – this wasn't – I didn't do anything!"

"This body was suppose to contain a man who died of heart failure," Molly said. "Looks to me like this man was decapitated while in the body bag."

"You mean, he was dead?" Samuel asked. "When his head came off?"

Molly shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I have to run tests to be certain, but given – "

"Someone stuffed a man into a body bag and chopped his head off?" Samuel asked loudly as two security guards came into the room.

"He said it," Molly said simply to the guards. "I was supposed to do an autopsy on someone named Gregory Wendell. Would you please phone the police? Maybe get Samuel a chair. Oh, and I'll need some help finding the body I'm supposed to autopsy."

Both guards looked daggers at her.

 

By the end of the day, the police had cordoned off parts of the lab and pulled all the staff into interviews. One of the detectives came into Molly's office.

"It's Molly Hooper, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes, and you're Detective..."

"Donovan," Sally said. "You've a moment?"

"Not really, but go on."

"What was the name of the man you were supposed to autopsy today?"

"A bloke named Gregory Wendell, died from heart-related complications."

"You sure of that?" Sally asked.

"Never got to do his autopsy. Suppose I'll get to it tomorrow."

"Doctor Hooper, the decapitated man was Gregory Wendell."

"The paperwork said he was found – "

"I know what the paperwork said," Sally interrupted. "And we've got about half a dozen witness that all say the same thing. Gregory Wendell was found dead this morning. Paramedics couldn't get his heart to start. Doctors called time of death officially as soon as he arrived at St. Bart's."

"The body in that bag," Molly said, "he was alive when his head was cut off."

"Your assistant told me you said that," Sally said. "Care to explain how you knew that?"

"The blood, the injuries," Molly replied. "If the head was cut off post-mortem, then – "

"You could tell all that from a glance?"

"I'm a pathologist," Molly replied. "And it was more than a glance." She waited a moment. "Why are you asking me – "

"Standard procedure," Sally interrupted. "We've got two security guards saying you were with them around time of decapitation."

"Someone else has done the autopsy then?" Molly asked.

"Your boss, Garnett, approved it," Sally replied. "Again, just standard procedure. You'll probably have to answer a few more questions, maybe even testify."

"Detective Donovan, I'm used to that."

"As a witness, not a pathologist," Sally said simply. "Here, if you think of anything else." She handed off her business card.

As Sally left the room, Molly took a deep breath. Garnett wouldn't be pleased, and Molly hadn't been fond of the Yard since Sherlock had been forced to fake his own death. She was in for a rough month.

 

 **Earlier today** , Molly was at the end of her rope. For all her patience and persistence, even she had her limits, and this day had eaten away at every iota of her strength.

Certainly, she had suffered considerably after helping Sherlock fake his own death. For all his shortcomings and maddening antics, his presence brightened her day, and not simply because she had feelings for him. His research, his wacky experiments, changed the way she saw her work.

So while the day Sherlock left had dragged Molly Hooper to a new low, it was nothing compared to the day she just had. As soon as she arrived at work, she knew something was wrong. Several "review members," whoever they were, were hovering around the labs all day, making notes on ugly clipboards and attempting to intimidate employees on breaks or in the bathroom. Several of them had glared nails at her for her fifteen-minute tea break.

It had all been rather unnerving, but Molly assumed it was for some grant committee or human resources research. So she went about business as usual. 

Around lunch everything turned upside down. Molly skipped lunch because she was called back in on emergency, only to find that the morgue only had three new bodies, and only one of them was scheduled to be autopsied. Hardly an emergent situation.

No, she missed her lunch only to be lectured unnecessarily for an hour about security and paperwork. Her boss, Doctor Amelia Garnett, insisted that she learn the face and name of all the new security guards, and they hers. Molly found this all good practice. As a matter of fact, she had already taken the time to do this, but not out of security concerns. She just thought it polite.

When she attempted to excuse herself around four in the afternoon, she received a rather harsh tone from Doctor Garnett, who insisted that Molly was never a team player, always 'about with that sketchy Sherlock fellow.' Garnett also pointed out that Molly's performance had recently declined, and her behavior today had been subpar from morning to end of day.

To top it all off, the ridiculous proceedings continued until dinnertime, and Garnett demanded that she remain to complete the autopsy scheduled for earlier that afternoon.

Molly had received plenty of reprimands in her life, and she had made enough mistakes to weather them. But never had anyone ever suggested that her work, and her ability to do that work, was anything less than exceptional. Even Sherlock Holmes described her as adequate, which was higher praise than she'd seen anyone else receive from that man. Instead of having a frustrating day and no social life, Garnett ensured that Molly had an infuriating day and no social life. 

And it was all out of the blue; she and Garnett hadn't had a single run in since she took up the position at Bart's over a year ago.

 

 _Except for that decapitation case._ Molly's thought poured into her recollection. The fallout from the surprise decapitation, and how Molly handled it, hadn't pulled to a head until today.

 

 **Earlier today, in the evening** , Molly left Garnett's office along with several other pathologist, all eager to return home.

"It's gotta be what happened at the other morgues," Brentin said to Molly, snapping her out of her own head.

"Sorry?" she asked.

Doctor Brentin Greenberg had joined St. Bart's as a pathologist only a few months ago, and he already had the reputation for gossip.

"You know, all them bodies gone missing," Brentin continued. "That's why we've had every cog and cud down here, telling us how to do our jobs."

"Bodies gone missing?" Molly repeated. "From here?"

"Ah, no," he said as he grabbed his keys. "But a few of the other hospitals, yeah. You coming for a drink?"

"Sorry, no, I've got another autopsy," she said.

"You must've pissed Garnett off, eh?" he asked with a wink. Then he swaggered away, as if his question had been 'goodnight.'

Even the autopsy went awry. Whoever had set up the autopsy room – and it was likely Brentin from earlier in the day – had done it poorly, so Molly set about to make it right. 

Her paperwork was for one Cielo Adam Wallen. Unfortunately, having been locked up with her boss all day, she hadn't had a chance to check the name and serial numbers against the tags and body bag, which contained an older woman named Sophia Evans.

"You have got to be kidding me," Molly said to herself as she went through the morgue, looking for the body of Cielo Adam Wallen. He wasn't there. 

It was nearly ten at night. She wouldn't get anyone on the phone for some kind of paperwork mix up this late, regardless of how displeased Garnett would be tomorrow. 

And that was that. Molly couldn't do an autopsy with no body, so she might as well go home. 

As she passed the halls, she noticed that Doris Lecroix and Aaron Kraemer, the two security guards that worked the nightshift at Bart's, were both gone. Molly wondered at it, but she figured they must've both gone to the loo. But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. Something was wrong. 

So she hurried into her office to gather her things. As she swept out, something hard connected with her forehead and nose. 

As Molly fell, she realized that it was somebody's arm, stuck out across the threshold to catch her on her exit. Fear and fury converged as she landed hard on her back. Whoever her assailant was, his face was obscured by some kind of plastic translucent mask. 

After everything, all Molly was really certain of was that she was incredibly pissed off. As he moved to grab hold of her, she jerked her leg up and smashed her heel into the back of his kneecap, eliciting a grunt as he stumbled into the wall. She rolled awkwardly onto one side and pulled herself to her feet, her nose aching and possibly bleeding. 

Her attacker didn't give up; he lunged for her and grabbed her arm at the shoulder, pinning her against a wall. 

With one swift movement, Molly slipped the scalpel from inside her lab jacket and jabbed it hard up into his arm, right behind the elbow. John Watson had shown her a nerve strike in that general area, and apparently she found her mark, because the man reeled back and screamed, clutching the blade sticking out of his flesh. 

Molly ran as fast as she could, blocking the path behind her with whatever she could tip over. She ducked into the first office she could and stopped the door with an awkward metal chair. For all her efforts, her attacker hadn't been thrown, and she didn't have much time before he got through that door. 

With blood now freely dripping down her face, Molly considered her options. 

She opened a window before hoisting herself above the false ceiling. Certainly, she could make a run for it, but how far could she hope to get? What if there was more than one person? What if they had guns?

No, hiding would be better. Once she settled on the ledge above the false ceiling, she dialed for help, muting the phone to prevent any noise from alerting her attacker, who finally succeeded in breaking into the office.

Every few seconds, she pressed another button to assure the police she was still on the line. Otherwise, she tried to keep still, but the whole of the place smelled as if something had gone off somewhere leaving its stench like a fog. And she was shaking. The adrenaline from her flight was wearing off, and the cursing of her assailant below her did nothing to steady her nerves.

Thus, Molly Hooper ended the worst day of her life perched above an office in St. Bart's, with her eyes smarting from the injury to her forehead and her nose freely bleeding.

And she waited, her breath hitching at every noise.


	2. The Veiled Lodger

"Yes, all right, Greg!" John Watson said loudly.

Lestrade started at the sudden interjection of his first name into the conversation.

The waiter topped off their drinks and darted.

"It's important that you get this right, because there's a spec, a glimmer, that you ran off to Salcombe because Mycroft put you onto it, then everyone will be wanting to know who Mycroft is, why he – "

"Okay, all right," John replied. "Give me a minute."

The minute was fairly long, closer to three minutes. Finally John asked, "Have you heard anything?"

"About?"

"Indigo Kendall Berwyn," John replied. "Who else? Did you find her body yet?"

"No, and why are you so certain that there's a body to find again?"

"She disappeared while investigating a lunatic who had starved dogs guarding the grounds of his estate at night. Not a huge leap, now is it?"

Lestrade's face betrayed his suspicion, but he didn't press the issue again. John Watson had sidestepped every question and skirted every pitfall that the detective could think of. All John would admit to was Mycroft's invitation to Salcombe, and Mycroft barely admitted to even that. 

"Right then, I need you to go over it, all of it, even the stuff that's about dirt or knitting or whatever it was that put you onto this guy, John."

"It was the Dewey Decimal System, Lestrade! Nothing at all to do with forensics," John said. "Come off it. I've told you this half dozen times today alone. What's all this about?"

"It's an investigation."

"No, no. We've never done this before. Whatever this is."

"Before?" Lestrade began. "That's a knock, isn't it? Before, Sherlock submitted testimony. Or he gave us something else, another route, that didn't involve him putting off a judge and jury."

"Mueller was supposed to be the ticket on this," John replied, barely containing his frustration. 

"'Cept he's not exactly stable, now, is he? Babbling on about ghosts and all that. Don't get me wrong, he's key in putting Miles way, but I don't want to stack everything against him just to have him crack during the trial."

"So, that's what this is about?" John asked. "About the trial?"

Lestrade nodded. 

John let out a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. "Edward Miles is going to be in some kind of institution for the rest of his life. You certainly don't need my testimony for that."

Throwing all pretense, Lestrade replied, "You kidnapped a baby."

"No, no, I didn't," John said mildly. "See, the baby had already been kidnapped. I was returning the baby. And it wasn't even me who carried him, it was Mueller. So really, all I did was free Mueller, who by the way, was abducted and held against his will."

Lestrade had developed a sense for Sherlock's shenanigans - it had been an absolute requirement for dealing with the man – but he just didn't have the same knack for John. It wasn't just the odd case with hungry dogs, the ghosts, or the recovered baby. It was the fact that every time John Watson opened his mouth it was as if Sherlock was speaking.

"While we're off topic," Lestrade began, "how's Molly?"

John sat back. "Better off than she should be, given the circumstances."

"Look, I know there's this whole mess with the Miles family kidnapping, but I think Molly would be better off if you looked into it."

"Looked into it?" John repeated. "You mean her case?"

"'Course I mean her case, what else would I mean?"

"Lestrade, I'm not Sherlock!"

"No, you're John Watson. Right now, that's as close as I can get, and it's more'n enough. I think Molly'll be better for it, too, if you'd work with her."

John didn't really think on it too long before replying. "For Molly? Anything. Just, don't make it a big deal." 

Lestrade smiled, wondering at what the hell was going on. "So, that means we'll go over all this, one more time," he insisted. "Last time, all right? And I'll pick up the last round."

"Cheers," John replied miserably.

 

Mycroft Holmes dragged his brother – kicking and screaming, as per usual – to a gutted and neglected building nestled away in Caterham on the Hill. The paint job and detail afforded the outside of the building was the perfect camouflage.

Sherlock's disposition changed as his interests peeked. His eyes zeroed in on the hard line where the set dressing of the building simply ceased and the true decay of its structure was revealed. 

"This isn't one of your safe houses," Sherlock commented. 

"No, it's not."

The younger Holmes sized up his brother. He was conflicted. On one hand, Mycroft had quite literally abducted him from his bed to take him out to Caterham, all the while refusing to give a reason as to why. On the other hand, why go to the expense of maintaining the exterior of the building, down to the gardening, while allowing the inside to be so blatantly disregarded? The cost of bribing building inspectors alone would be prohibitive. No, whoever managed this place had special intentions for it. Mycroft's interest in the situation made it clear that those intentions were illegal and dangerous.

"I imagine you've spotted the windows by now, assuming you can do without your skull to talk to," Mycroft began. 

"Bulletproof glass?" Sherlock observed. "And false latches. These windows can't open in either direction. I'd say added within the last week."

"Three days, actually. Along with – "

"The security monitors. Camera, microphone, microphone, reflector, heat sensor, movement sensor, early alert system of some kind that relies on lasers that seem to be disabled," Sherlock rattled off as he waved his hands at each item, boredom clear in his voice. "Clearly whoever was here went to great lengths to conceal themselves. Or at least to know when someone was approaching. Is there a reason we're here?"

"Shall we have a look?" Mycroft asked.

"A look?"

"There was an, how shall we say? An event here quite recently. That's why all the security is offline now."

"Certainly the local law enforcement – "

"Have no idea. Because of the parties involved."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'The parties involved' meant that some royal family member had another blunder –

But his stream of thought changed abruptly as they stepped inside. This was not some fool's hideaway for illegal paraphernalia or a gambling ring. This place had been used for some kind of holding cell.

"One prisoner," Sherlock said. 

"Two prisoners," Mycroft commented.

Sherlock followed Mycroft's train of thought, but he was already ahead of his brother.

"That's certainly what everyone else thought," Sherlock replied shortly. "But this second prisoner, if you could call her – and yes, it's definitely a woman, by the size of that hand print and foot print over here – a prisoner, but she surely wasn't."

"How's that?"

"The first prisoner had been accounted for in every way. The chair, the chain restraints," Sherlock reeled off, the boredom seeping back into his voice, "this cell is essentially customized. Made for the size and shape of a very dangerous person."

"Not a difficult conclusion, given that the chair was made for someone nearly two meters tall."

"Not just the height. The bars on this one cell in the middle here, they're specially fitted. I imagine one of your prisoners were a propensity for escaping might find themselves in a place just like this. The bed is just so. Even the cell itself is place in the room to allow for guards and snipers to have optimal vantage points." Sherlock paused. Then he added, "You're getting old Mycroft. You don't need me for anything of this."

"Don't I?" Mycroft asked, allowing a little smile to pass over his lips.

Sherlock inspected the secondary cell. Like the first, it had special bars, a bed, and a chair with restraints. But it was all wrong, like an old house with an added wall to break a room into two. It was just off enough to be obvious. For some reason, the second prisoner was unexpected, yet the people holding these two had enough time to set up the cell. 

"Where are they?" Sherlock asked.

"Sorry?"

"The prisoners. I imagined you recovered them."

"I certainly can't fault you entirely for that assumption," he replied. Mycroft waved his arm at something – or someone – and makeshift overhead floodlights came on, filling the room with industrial lighting. 

Two bodies were in the room. Four other chalk lines indicated that whatever happened here had at least four survivors. 

"I received a call, me personally," Mycroft began, "just four hours ago."

"From whom?"

"That's a rather long and unnecessary story."

"Is it?"

"We know that the man that was held captive here is known as Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"And the other person?"

"No idea," Mycroft replied. "I did surmise it was a woman, possibly a relative or girlfriend of Moran's, used against him, but neither were here by the time we arrive. No physical evidence in the cells, either."

"Then how did you establish his identity?"

"Intelligence. Photographs. What little security footage that remained showed him being, ah, escorted in. He's rather distinguished."

"I imagine so. And the other prisoner?"

"Unfortunately, nothing. Recordings for the past day have been... unrecoverable as of yet."

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock repeated. "I know that name."

"'Course you do. He was groomed by Moriarty."

The two Holmes brothers turned to each other. "That's not the context of the name, not as I know it," Sherlock said firmly. 

"Isn't it?"

Sherlock began his stroll through his mind palace, following the long walkway of uneven cobblestone, each one a name of Moriarty's network he'd identified and neutralized, one way or another. No, Sebastian Moran didn't belong here. That name was older; in fact, he had heard it before the name Moriarty was screamed by the dying cabbie.

So he moved away from the newer parts of his Mind Palace and moved past the lovely, ornate arcades and followed the engraved balustrades up, up, and up into the corridors of the second and third floors. It occurred to Sherlock that he knew far too many people named Sebastian, and the name 'Moran' was completely unhelpful, since it was used so often as a descriptive noun rather than a last name. 

And then he remembered. 

Sherlock had tucked Moriarty away in the dreary wards of the dungeon since his death. But Sebastian Moran, that name was older than the dungeons; so he focused on the oubliette...

KIDNAPPING VICTIMS FOUND STARVED TO DEATH. The headline of every newspaper covering Edinburgh, Scotland a decade ago. Three bodies were discovered, but there was evidence of other victims held captive. The investigators had no physical evidence or any real indication of the perpetrators; instead, they focused on identifying any other kidnapping targets that had been released and therefore survived the ordeal.

Sherlock had connected Sebastian Moran to the case as a part of the working theory, but the 'full international cooperation' offered to the investigation from Scotland Yard was withdrawn after a year passed with no real progress or suspects.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said out loud. "What do you know about him?"

"Not nearly enough, I'm afraid," his brother replied. Then he added, "You were a long time about that, Sherlock. It seems as if I'm not the only one getting old."

Sherlock ignored Mycroft and began to examine the interior more closely. 

Oddly, Sherlock wished John were here. Something about his partner – even with his lack of observation - made his mind work faster. He didn't like to admit it, but it was true. Especially here and now.

So the younger Holmes took his time. Every inch of the building yielded a new clarity, new evidence. Impressions from boots and shoes abounded, and the floor was in such a state of decay that those who walked here left behind more than just footprints. With just a few samples, he could map out the movements of every individual that passed through this room, or at least, the ones that had been wearing shoes.

Following the footprints, he wound up back at the cell in the center of the room. While the bars ran straight to the ceiling, thick cylinders of metal that couldn't be shifted or even wriggled from their positions, the rest of the walls had been reduced to thin columns. Bare, somewhat dilapidated furniture lined up against the walls.

The floodlights illuminated everything, but those lights weren't part of this building. No, Mycroft's lackeys had added nearly all of them only a few hours ago. The only true overhead light beamed down directly over the prisoner's cell, and by association, the added cell. 

He drifted idly to a small stand that held a lamp. Click. The light was so low that he couldn't see it with the overheat lighting. 

"Blue light," Mycroft said softly. "All the lamps have blue blubs or – "

"Tinted gels," Sherlock interrupted. "It's commonly used in backstage lighting for theatrical performances. Good for containing images. For illusion."

Sherlock didn't need to stand behind the bars to know that whoever was locked inside would not be able to see more than a few feet beyond the bars. The beam of light not only lit up the prisoner, it also served as a blinder.

All in all, a very clever arrangement, assuming there were half a dozen individuals assigned to keep watch at all times. What little furniture there was – a few cots, desks, stands, and so on - was lined against the walls. The entire building was a giant, decaying cavern with a brilliant beam of light focused on the only individual of concern: the person being locked up. Should he attempt to escape, he could be stopped at a distance with a tranquilizer gun, or killed with a bullet, before he could even get near the door. If someone tried to break in, the same principle would apply. The prisoner could be executed quickly and easily, so long as one of the guards was a good shot.

This, of course, begged the question: how did someone manage to take out the guards? All walls and windows were in tact, so no long-range attack was mounted. There were eight unique footprints. Four individuals injured and two dead; Sherlock deduced that these were the guards. The seventh set of prints belonged to Sebastian Moran. That left only one set of footprints for the second so-called prisoner who eliminated the guards.

"Tell me, Sherlock, what do you think happened here?" Mycroft asked, as if two minutes was too much time for Sherlock to think. 

The older Holmes lingered by the door of the cell.

"Still looking in the wrong places," Sherlock said under his breath. 

He waved his brother over. "It started over here."

Mycroft crossed the room. Several long tables were set on their edges around a chair. Had the chains been ribbons and the tables three-sided marks, the area could've been mistaken for some kind of photo set. 

"I thought so too, as this was likely the first body," Mycroft indicated the man lying not three feet away. 

"And?"

"And what?"

"You said it in a manner that suggested this body seemed first, but wasn't first."

"Indeed."

"Mycroft!"

"If I felt confident in my assessment, I wouldn't've risked bringing you out into the open like this."

"This was either a woman or a teenage boy."

"Oh?"

"The captors had prepared for a Goliath of an escape, yet they severely underestimated the second prisoner. I could claim rampant sexism and say definitely this was a woman..."

"Yes?"

"But that seems unlikely. If she was, as you say, a relative or lover of one Sebastian Moran, the man who deserved his own very special, very particular cage, then they would've have moved her here, away from the primary light, in minimal restraints."

"So you think it was a young man, then?"

Sherlock rarely wavered on such deductions, and he didn't like it when it did happen. Maybe he overestimated the kidnappers, or perhaps this person gained the uppehand somehow. 

"No, it could very well have been a woman."

"Ah. So you don't know?"

"Do you?" Sherlock asked.

"Not as of yet. What do you think you are for?"

"A woman," Sherlock decided after spotting partial shoe imprints of the person who sat in the chair. They had a clearly defined heel shape common to women's high heels. 

"Having a bad day are we?"

Sherlock ignored his brother. "For some reason, the kidnappers think she's incapacitated. Unconscious. Maybe she feigned illness. One of the guards brings her over here, setting up floor lights angled up at her from here and here."

"Obviously."

"At some point, she struggled. The guard grabbed her, trying to get her back into the chair, and for some reason, lifted her up, off her feet."

"Not all that uncommon."

"That's exactly what she wanted," Sherlock continued. "Her wrists were bound – you can see that clearly from the rope burns on the man's face – but they were bound one over the other in front of her. When he lifted her up, he gave her the position she needed. Took her fists, stacked together, and thrust down hard over his eye." 

Sherlock mimed this maneuver on Mycroft, who brushed his arms aside.

He continued, "Had she been standing like this, facing him, her attack would've failed. But she was lifted up, almost above him, with both his arms, so he had no recourse. The strike itself would hardly be worth mentioning, except she had a rather sharp instrument concealed."

"A pencil," Mycroft offered.

"A pencil?"

"Specifically a drafting pencil with no eraser."

Sherlock inspected the man's injuries. The movement had been brutal and precise. Most of the pencil stabbed into the eye socket with the initial strike; the last bit was likely pounded in with the edge of her fist as the man fell on his back. It was difficult to tell with the blood, but a glimpse of the graphite could be seen in the center of the tip.

"Indeed, it is a pencil."

"You doubted me?"

"Can't've imagined where she found a pencil. Let alone sharpened it well enough to manage this kind of attack."

Mycroft took a moment to consider this, but he made no reply. 

"Now, the rest is obvious. She used her smaller frame to avoid bullets. These captors wouldn't risk firing unless they could see her. Since you moved the four other bodies – "

"I assure you, it was solely because they weren't dead. Couldn't have them here."

"All unconscious?"

"All lucky to be barely alive, I'd wager."

"She used a combination of crippling and stunning techniques, unfortunately not a surprising choice for a woman who knows combat and is used to facing larger opponents. Maximum results with minimum effort."

"You sound unimpressed."

"Mycroft, why am I here? Surely everything I've said has crossed your mind. This woman eliminated the guards and freed Sebastian Moran. They fled together."

"Sherlock, you've always been a bit of an idiot. I remember that case out in Scotland – "

"Edinburgh," Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes, naturally. If you hope to maintain your death, you can't wander about London with John Watson."

"So you're sending me out of the country?"

"Like you'd go anywhere I'd send you," Mycroft said. "No, I brought you here today because I believe this... situation is connected with your veiled lodger."

"What?" Sherlock asked. "What lodger?"

"Haven't you been by? When she stands by the window, she covers her face," Mycroft said. When Sherlock's expression of confusion didn't fade, he added, "The woman currently taking up your bedroom at 221 B Baker Street."

"My bedroom?" 

"Yes. She's been staying there for the past two days."

"Who? And why? If it's another one of his girlfriends, why should she be in my room? Shouldn't she – "

Mycroft interrupted, "John explained to me that she was lodging and that she'd be there indefinitely. Don't worry, there's no threat to your secret."

"Mycroft, who exactly is this lodger?"

"Haven't you heard?"

"If I had, I wouldn't be asking."

"Molly Hooper."


	3. Quiver

Lestrade could tell that John Watson kept something back at their interview. 

Unfortunately, John Watson had plenty of reasons to keep a tight lip, and most of them were none of Lestrade's business. He acknowledged his own motives: he _wanted_ Sherlock Holmes to be alive, so of course he heard Watson saying and saw Watson doing things that indicated just that.

But he couldn't let it go, either, especially not when Molly Hooper refused protective custody in favor of hiding out at 221 B Baker Street.

Without Molly's request, and with no case file on the possibility that Sherlock Holmes was alive, Lestrade had no resources beyond his own free time, and that was fast evaporating. 

But that was why, on his first day off in weeks, he perched in a new spot on Baker Street to monitor the comings and goings of the general area.

It was a dull Tuesday that became greyer in the afternoon. As the day wore down, Lestrade's resolve began to dissipate. He couldn't keep at this forever, and there was less than nothing to support Sherlock being alive, just his own desperate hope. Any sane human being would've grieved and accepted Sherlock's death months ago. Instead, here he was, dressed in an odd hat and jacket, peeking through binoculars.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw a tall, thin man subtly pick the lock of 221 B and slip inside. 

Lestrade bolted, discarding all manner of discretion. If he was right, Sherlock Holmes had just returned home.

Just as Lestrade reached the edge of the curb, however, shouting erupted from within. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should just cross the street and go inside. Before he could decide, the door swung open dramatically, and a flailing body collapsed on the front stoop. John Watson hovered in the doorframe, looming over the man who just snuck into his flat.

The detective shrunk back, covering his face with his jacket's collar, and made as if he were looking for the bus stop or a public loo. This gave him time to look at the other man's face.

After about a minute, however, he knew that the man in question was not Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade had met the visitor, a man named Leery, before, as one of Sherlock's "Homeless Network" Contacts. They were about the same build and height, but there was no mistaking either man for the other even a street's distance away.

Thus, Gregory Lestrade stalked back to his car, feeling thoroughly hacked off and stupid at the same time.

He really had no idea that he had just caught his first glimpse of Sherlock since just before he jumped off of St. Bart's.

 

John waited until Leery had cleared off, mostly to be certain that anyone attracted by their tussle got what they came for and followed suit. Thus, it was several minutes before he ducked back inside.

His timing was quite opportune, as the shut door muffled the screech that emanated from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

"Sherlock! Oh my, it's – it's – John! John Watson! Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson yelled, her voice whining up so that it became difficult to hear her words.

John rushed into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson stood, agape and shocked by Sherlock, so John helped her to a kitchen chair.

"You see him?" she asked. 

"Yes, he's alive," John replied simply.

This earned him a right slap across his face. Sherlock's smug smirk caught his eye.

"You knew! You've known!" Mrs. Hudson said. "Oh, Sherlock!"

It only took a moment, even with her bad hip, to stumble over to Sherlock and wrap both her arms around him.

His smirk was replaced by a genuine affection, but the expression disappeared quickly. After a moment, Mrs. Hudson stood in an awkward bundle. Sherlock gently patted her head.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson," he said quietly. "My apologies. I assumed John told you after his return from Salcombe."

John's face still smarted; had it not been for Molly's situation, he would've gone to the pub for a much-needed drink.

"You told me not to tell anyone," he replied.

"Mrs. Hudson is not anyone."

"Sorry. Is this why you came here?"

"Hardly," Sherlock said, finally breaking the hug. "I hope Leery wasn't an inappropriate house guest."

"Wouldn't know," Mrs. Hudson replied as she busied herself with tea. "John locked him in the downstairs apartment."

"He told me he sleepwalks," John protested. "And the last thing Molly needs is to bump into Leery in the middle of the night."

Sherlock's interest in the situation at hand renewed. "Right, Molly. Mrs. Hudson, we'll have to resume this conversation later."

John followed Sherlock into the hallway, but he didn't climb the stairs. 

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" John said from below.

"Molly's case."

"Yes, there's a small scheduling conflict."

"For whom?"

"For me."

"For you."

"Yes, Sherlock, for me. Is that really so hard to believe?"

"Oh, John, can't you put your dalliance off for another night?"

"Firstly, no," he replied, donning his coat. "And second, this isn't a date."

"But I assume it's about a woman?"

"No time to explain, I've got a three hour drive there and I can't put this off, now that there's someone here to stay with Molly."

"Mrs. Hudson could – "

"Don't you dare," John interrupted. "Look, you've to stay here for at least a night anyway, so you might as well be useful."

"'Useful'? What's that suppose to mean?" Sherlock asked.

But John was already out the door.

 

It took Sherlock only a moment to remind himself of the puzzle that waited for him in his own flat. With a swish of his long coat, he turned into the living room.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked the room at large, as if he expected her to pop out from under a tea cozy.

She emerged from his bedroom with her face covered by an overlarge hooded jumper. 

"Sherlock?" she asked. "You're here? John said you wanted to help, but I didn't think – you're supposed to be dead, Sherlock."

Normally Molly Hooper refrained from saying things, or said things he didn't want to hear when he was a captive audience. Now, however, her words seemed to be slipping of out her like leaky oil.

"Circumstances being what they are, John and I made arrangements."

"Where is John?"

"Ah, he had something to attend to, apparently."

Molly sat in John's usual armchair, taking car to keep her face covered.

"What happened to you, Molly?"

"Surely John told you."

"Just that you were attacked. And something about 'the Decapitated Man' from the news."

She nodded.

"Molly, I am the one who has to hide his face from the world. At least, while I complete the work dismantling Moriarty's network. Not you."

She didn't reply.

He said, "I see John covered all the windows, quite recently from the disturbances in the dust lines."

"Last night, I think."

"So there's no need to cover your face now, Molly. There's no one here but a dead man."

She exhaled slowly and slipped off the hood, and Sherlock understood why she veiled herself when looking out the window. Even from far off, the deep purple-black of her bruises on her neck and face could be seen; only a sliver of the bruises had started to turn lighten and yellow with healing.

Sherlock kept his face neutral; to keep calm, he considered the many horrible things he could perpetrate on the assailant. His eyes swept over Molly's features, collecting data for analysis.

He observed a very mild shuffle when she walked to the armchair, as if one of her heels ached when weight was put on it. She likely injured it while kicking someone. 

_She defended herself_ , he thought, and for some reason he felt an odd sense of pride. 

She favored her left arm but had no sling or cast, which meant she didn't strike back with her arms or fists. Perhaps she had a weapon or blunt object in hand. 

He shifted his focus to her face. She looked away from him, stubbornly shaking her head. It occurred to him this might be uncomfortable for her, though he had to wonder at why, but he hastened his pace nonetheless.

Stitches began behind her left ear and continued under her hair, likely a laceration. Black and red blotches began on the left side of her neck, traveling down towards her shoulder. Obviously, someone pinned her on her stomach, probably against a wall. The man - he deduced 'man' from the size of the bruise on her wrist where he grabbed her - twisted her shoulder and arm enough to bruise the shoulder blade. It's a wonder nothing broke.

The worst of it, though, was across her cheeks, around her eyes, and even the center of her forehead. Clearly, her attacker broke her nose viciously. She had received medical care for it, but between the injury and the surgery – and indeed, it was definitely a surgical correction – the swelling and inflammation had not receded one jot.

It had only been about fifteen seconds of deduction, but it was enough for Sherlock to be certain that Molly was alive by her own cleverness and force of will. The man that attacked her could very well have broken her neck. 

These thoughts made Sherlock add several items to the "to perpetrate on the criminal who did this" list he had concocted earlier.

"Molly," he said with his voice lowered. Molly couldn't be certain, but it sounded like compassion. "Who did this to you?"

"Gregory Wendell," she replied.

"He's in custody?"

"No," Molly said as she flipped her hood back on.

"The police know who he is?"

"Yes, they identified him with trace evidence from my clothing."

"Has he threatened you?"

"No, Sherlock, Gregory Wendell is dead, has been for over a week."

"How?"

"That decapitated body at St. Bart's? It was brought into the morgue for an autopsy as a man who died from a heart attack or heart-related complications. But when the bag was – when my assistant began to prep..."

"The body had been decapitated."

"No, he had been decapitated. In the body bag."

"He was alive when his head was removed?"

"Sherlock, I'm a pathologist, I can tell the difference between removing the head from a living body rather than a dead one!" she replied defensively.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you can," he said quickly. "I'm merely confirming the order of events. First, the man is pronounced dead, presumably by emergency services, correct?"

She nodded.

"But there's still a chance, so they take him to St. Bart's to confirm his heart has stopped. Two separate doctors confirm that he is dead."

She nodded again.

"Then the body was placed in a body bag, and they moved his body to the morgue for the autopsy."

"Yes."

"Rather fast isn't it?" Sherlock asked. "Even if there were indications of foul play – "

"There weren't," Molly said quickly.

"Do you know why his autopsy was so expedient?" Sherlock asked. "Family request?"

"Not that I know of. As far as I knew, it was just like any other autopsy. Nothing special at all about it."

Sherlock took a moment to sit down and tentatively touched his fingertips together. 

"So the same man that had the fastest ER to autopsy trajectory in all of St. Bart's history had no special paperwork? Certainly, Molly, you had a queue of bodies, you always do."

"You're – you're right," she replied. "He was my first autopsy of the day, so I didn't even think on that."

"You wouldn't. That's why I'm here. Now, think, Molly. Think! What else happened that day?"

"Nothing. Actually nothing, after the body turned up, or what you'd like, I couldn't do anything but answer questions and file paperwork all day."

"I mean before the decapitated man. Think!"

She took a breath. "I ate breakfast. Took the tube. Same route I do everyday. And, that's right, when I got to St. Bart's, I got stuck at security. My card couldn't be read. Apparently I swiped it so much that it was worn down completely."

"You were late to the autopsy?"

"Yes, well, about half an hour, but technically – "

"Why didn't you tell me this immediately?" Sherlock demanded, standing up. He started to pace, "Don't you see, Molly? That's how they did it!"

"Did what?"

"Thirty minutes is enough time for almost anything to happen, Molly. And since security was who held you up, they weren't paying attention to other things."

"Sherlock, what are you on about?" she asked. 

"Not now, Molly, I'm on to something!"

"So you know how is it that this man, originally pronounced dead at the ER, had his heart restarted only to be decapitated, then somehow managed to attack me a week later?" she asked. 

"Well," he said as he paused his pacing. But then he resumed. "Haven't gotten that far, now have I? Do you have the files?"

"The files?"

"Yes, the files for the decapitated man and your attack. Do you have them here?"

"John put them – "

"In the file box near the desk," Sherlock completed as he quickly went to them. "Thank you Molly, that will be all."

Molly wasn't certain if she should be more confused by the 'thank you' or the dismissal. 

 

"I'm not going anywhere." 

"Right, then, be useful and set up the equipment," Sherlock said. "The kitchen isn't as big as St. Bart's, but we'll manage."

It took several minutes for Sherlock to notice that Molly hadn't moved.

"Molly?" he prompted.

"Sherlock."

"Why are you sitting down? The equipment is over there."

"You're an insensitive git, you know that?" she said loudly.

"I'm well aware."

"Look at me, Sherlock. I'm in no state."

"You're injured Molly, not incapable."

She let out a hiss before getting up and getting to it.


	4. Metempsychosis

Thursday morning, John came down from his room to find Sherlock pacing incessantly in the flat, muttering. He nearly snuck by, but just as he reached the stairs, Sherlock spoke up.

"I need my bedroom back."

"Sorry?"

"My bedroom, John! I need it back."

"You slept last night?"

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I didn't."

"Then why... right, never mind. Molly needs a room."

"What's wrong with your room?"

"My room?" John asked. "I sleep there."

"Are we leaving already?" Molly asked, entering the room.

"Morning Molly," John said.

"Morning," Molly replied.

Sherlock nodded his head and started pacing again.

"Right, well, how soon can you be ready?" John asked Molly.

"Can I borrow one of your hooded jumpers?" 

"Of course," he replied.

"I need about twenty minutes. And something to eat, then."

 

Sally Donovan met John and Molly at St. Bart's Morgue.

"Sally," John said, not bothering to hide his surprise. 

"Hello Molly, John."

"I thought that Lestrade... is he here?" John asked.

Donovan shook her head. "He's got that mess of a trial you left him with, actually."

"Cheers."

"I didn't mean it like that," Donovan said. "Just that he wanted to be here, but he can't be. You all right, Molly?"

"I've been better," Molly replied. 

"All right, security here has agreed to let you have exclusive access to the places you requested, but you've only an hour. Can't get you more than that. Where do you want to start?"

"Upstairs, in the ER," Molly spoke up. 

"That wasn't on your list," Donovan said. 

"No, we knew we couldn't get that to ourselves. Obvious reasons. But the decapitated body still started there, so we thought we'd follow the same, uh, trajectory," John explained.

"Right, come on."

Several nurses tried to kick them out of the trauma room where Gregory Wendell was pronounced dead, and as soon as one left, another seemed to pop in.

"You think you can get us just a few minutes of quite?" John asked Donovan.

She nodded and stepped outside, flashing her DI badge to anyone who came within a three-foot radius. John took the opportunity to shut the door and turned back to Molly. 

"They wouldn't've attempted a round of resuscitation," Molly said quietly. "He was brought here as a formality."

"There's no reason to put a man in this room if he's just here to be pronounced," John said. 

"Maybe the EMTs managed to revive him en route for a few minutes," Molly said.

"Yes, yes, _all right_ ," John muttered. He then circled the entire room slowly, moving close to every piece of standing furniture. 

Donovan came in just as he moved ridiculously close to the far wall, as if inspecting it for a trap door. 

"You all right?" she asked. "Well, is he?" she added to Molly.

Molly nodded. 

"Sometimes I worry about him," Donovan continued to Molly. "Friends with Freak, and he was there when he jumped. That's enough to make anyone go off their rocker."

Molly considered Donovan for a moment. "You said 'Freak.' Do you mean Sherlock?"

"Yeah, him."

"Why? I mean, he's dead now, most people wouldn't bother with that kind of grudge," Molly said.

"That's just it. It wasn't a grudge between me and him."

"We should probably move on," John interrupted. "The elevator?"

Molly nodded.

As the trio made their way to the elevator, John casually acquired an unused medical bed lined against the wall.

"What are you on about?" Donovan asked.

"When they moved his body downstairs, they'd've put the body bag on this," John replied. 

"And?"

"We're trying to figure out how someone managed to decapitate this man between here and the bottom floor," John explained.

"Three of us can't fit in this elevator with that," Donovan protested. 

She wasn't entirely correct, but John would take any reason to get Donovan out of the way for the elevator ride.

"Right, then we'll see you downstairs, then," John said.

Donovan shook her head, but she went off to the stairwell all the same.

Molly helped John move the bed into the elevator.

"It is a bit tight, but it's possible he did it in here."

Molly nodded. "They said some kind of razor wire was used."

John mimed taking a wire and pulling it down. "That's a rubbish way to do this. It's not subtle, and since we know the victim was alive, I think he's fight back when razor wire was cutting through his neck."

Molly and John exited the elevator and made their way to the autopsy room with John guiding the bed. Donovan joined them as they locked the bed's frame down, just like it had been.

"Any revelations?" Donovan asked. 

"Usually the body is moved by two people. Once it's here, my assistant takes over."

Molly took out a body bag, and with John's help, they mimed the moments of shifting the body from the transfer bed to the autopsy table.

"Could that be it?" Donovan asked. "That. When the body shifted from here to there, somehow – "

"He was decapitated?" Molly asked skeptically. "No. The movement that cut through his neck was almost mechanical. Straight."

"Like the line on a bow," Donovan suggested. "After it's been pulled back and released. It snaps back to the original position."

Molly nodded, her bruised features appearing slightly from under her hood. "Actually, yeah. That fits the wounds better."

"So someone snapped razor wire through his neck," John said conclusively. "Ah. Now all we need to do is figure out how someone managed to do that with enough force but without anyone noticing."

"And how he's not dead now," Molly added.

Donovan said, "You sure that's it?"

"What?"

"Look, Molly, I know the trace evidence we found on you included DNA from Gregory Wendell, but it's possible that your attacker had contact with Wendell's body before he attacked you."

"Hang on, isn't his body, you know, locked up somewhere?" John asked. "As evidence, I mean."

Donovan nodded. 

"Well, then, who had access to – " John began.

"No," Molly cut him off. "The blood on my shirt. I mean, his blood on my shirt, was definitely the attackers."

"It was dark," Donovan suggested. "Maybe you – "

"I stabbed him with a scalpel," Molly interrupted. "His bare arm, mind. His blood got on my wrist and hand as I pulled it back. I touched my shirt there, and his blood got on my shirt. So either his hoax included an elaborately designed body suit with fake blood, or it's his DNA."

Her voice remained strong and resolute, even as she started to shake slightly from frustration. She took a deep breath and steadied herself.

"Right, that clears that up," John said conversationally. "Just out of, uh, curiosity, Donovan. How tall was Gregory Wendell? Was he one point seven meters, would you say?"

"Nah, he was definitely taller than that," Molly replied. "I'd say one point eight at least."

"You remember that? From the assault?" Donovan asked.

Molly shook her head. "No, from the autopsy that didn't happen. Wendell's paperwork said he was 1.85 meters tall. I confirmed it before the first officer on the scene asked me to leave."

"That doesn't make any sense. A man doesn't grow over a tenth of a meter when his head is cut off," John said. "Sally, did the Yard test the decapitated man's DNA?"

"Sorry?"

"He had a criminal file, didn't he? Gregory Wendell. Trace evidence is done against the file. That's how you know Wendell is the one who attacked Molly."

"Pretty much," Donovan replied.

"And, the decapitated man was shorter and, obviously, he's dead. So has anyone tested that body's DNA? My point is, the point I'm trying to make is... what if Gregory Wendell wasn't the one who got his head lopped off?"

"He was identified with his id, and I believe next of kin confirmed the identity," Donovan replied. "Hang on, let me put in a call. There's no reception in here."

Donovan stepped out.

As soon as she was out of an earshot, John turned and hissed, "Sherlock, I swear if you don't shut up, I'll mute you!"

Molly laughed quietly. "Sorry, usually the problem is him seeing other people. Now we can't see him."

John smiled back and began walking the room. "Sorry, he said he'd shut up if I did this. Should've gotten a camera I could hold, shouldn't I?" John added over his shoulder. "You doing all right, Molly?"

"A bit better, actually, now I'm here again. You really think there was an identification problem that caused all this?"

"That would make more sense than dead people walking around the morgue, wouldn't it?"

Molly nodded.

"We should get going," Donovan said as she came back into the room. "Our hour is almost up. They're testing the body against the DNA on file now, John. I'll call you when I've more information."

On their way out, Donovan took a moment with John. "You're doing well."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"You sound like him sometimes," Donovan said.

"When I miss him, sometimes I'll read some of his books," John invented quickly.

"Well, almost like him," Donovan continued. "Like he's talking to you and you're filtering it, adding that bit of tact, of humanity, he never had."

John replied, "There's a difference between who he was and who you saw him to be, Sally. You two never got on, that's fine. But don't act like you knew him. Because you didn't."

And with that, John walked over to Molly, and together they departed from St. Bart's.

 

John insisted they stop at a coffee shop for something to eat before returning to the flat.

"But he said to come straight back," Molly said. "And – "

"And nothing," John interrupted. "Now, it's on me, what do you want?"

After placing their orders, they settled into a table in the busiest part of the cafe. Molly did her best to hide behind her overlarge coffee mug.

"So, what haven't you told us yet?" John asked conversationally, as if he were asking for her to pass the sugar.

"Sorry?"

"Four days ago you came to me and said you needed somewhere safe to stay. I know you told the police about the threats you received. But there's something else."

"What makes you say that?"

"Let's see. You came to me, knowing I'd go to Sherlock, that's one thing. But you refused police custody. And everywhere we go, you're looking about like you expect to see someone there."

Molly nodded.

"So, what haven't you told us?"

"Ever since I helped Sherlock disappear, I've... notice some things. People following me. He said before he left that his brother might bother me, but – "

"You think people have been following you? And not Mycroft?" John asked. 

"I can't be sure. Maybe I'm just paranoid. But I don't think it was an accident."

"What?"

"The decapitated man could've been autopsied by anyone at Bart's. Sherlock was right about the timing. Getting an autopsy that quickly? Even in criminal investigations, that doesn't happen."

"So you think someone did this on purpose? To you, I mean. They wanted you to take the blame?"

Molly shook her head. "I don't know about blame. But my plenty of people at Bart's were put off by me because I worked with Sherlock. After his death, it got worse."

"You never said."

"I never thought it meant anything, but Wendell wasn't the only drastic problem I've had recently."

"Hang on, what?"

"The night I was attacked, I was staying late because I had an autopsy I was supposed to do, on a man named Cielo Wallen. I couldn't find his body. Figured it was a paperwork mix up. But I checked with Sam, my assistant, while we were there, and the body still hasn't turned up."

"Are you saying there's a missing body from St. Bart's?"

Molly took a moment. "John, there are at least ten missing bodies in the past two months. Not just from Bart's."

"And you think someone, what, targeted you? For your connection to Sherlock?"

"No, don't be daft," she said. "But being unpopular can be enough of a reason."

"Molly, listen... it's not you. I mean, look at how Donovan reacts to me. Being friends with, uh, someone unique – let's face it, an arse to everyone he meets – can put people off."

"Dunno if 'friends' is the right word."

John decided to push past that point entirely. "Look, we need to tell Sherlock about this. Then we'll figure it out and you can have your life back."

"Are you going tell me?"

"What?"

"About yesterday," Molly said. "You leave for a day, knowing I'll be stuck with Sherlock, of all people. Not that he's in capable, but he's not such an accommodating host."

"No, sorry about that."

"Must've been important. Whatever you were doing."

"Yeah, it was. But it's nothing to do with this," John replied. "Molly, I - "

She interrupted. "You can tell him, John. I'm... I'm done for the day, if that's alright."

 

Sherlock hated waiting. But staying dead demanded he had patience.

He hated patience. Being still was not what he was designed for, and why should he have to wait? They should've been back ages ago.

It was made worse by the fact that their trip to Saint Bart's had proven immensely useful. John may have failed to insult Sally Donovan as Sherlock directed, but he did get her to run the DNA. And he and Molly had discovered several key facts, though of course neither deduced anything from them. He had a number of things to investigate further, but of course he couldn't do any of that.

It was maddening.

His phone rang.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered.

"Little brother," Mycroft's voice came across the wire. "Have you made any progress?"

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"It's Sebastian Moran. He's started again."


	5. Masks

**Two days prior in Swadlincote, South Derbyshire**. John Watson arrived at the Stone Cottage Bed and Breakfast just before ten o'clock at night. He hadn't made very good time from London, but Mandy, the night manager, checked him in nonetheless.

"Just the one night?" Mandy asked.

"Unfortunately, yes," John replied politely. "Lovely place you've got here."

"Thank you. You'll be in room one seven three. There you are, Mr. Rushing," she said as she handed him his key.

He hadn't had the time to pack a bag, so he briefly visited his room to inspect it. It wasn't exactly a luxury room, but Mandy hadn't required any kind of official documentation, which enabled him to use his new alias (Daniel Rushing). He took great panes to ascribe everything related to his trip to Daniel Rushing: his room, his burner phone, even his travel ticket.

He double-checked the address and phone number for his meeting tomorrow before trying to sleep for a few hours.

 

The next morning John waited at the Reed Mill Cafe, keeping an eye out for one Isabelle Hennessy, who, as he heard it, stopped by the shop each morning.

He didn't wait long before a young lady with fair skin, blue eyes, and a reddened complexion placed an order for "the usual" with the cashier.

John approached her while she waited for her cappuccino.

"Kendall," he said quietly. "Isn't it?"

"Sorry?" she asked. "Who are you?"

"I'm John Watson," he said. 

"Sorry, you've the wrong person."

"Right, you go by Isabelle here," John said casually. "Maybe I do have it wrong, though. Maybe you aren't the person I'm looking for. But if you are, then you'd recognize the name John Watson. When you – sorry, Indigo Kendall Berwyn – was abducted from London, I was one of the people who went to Salcombe looking for you."

"Bell," the barista said, "your order's up."

"Here's where I'm staying, and the name I'm using," John said, handing her a scrap of paper. "I'll be there till tonight."

 

It was well into the afternoon before someone knocked on John's door. He worried that he made the trip for nothing.

"Come in," he said, waving Indigo Kendall Berwyn inside.

"First off, how did you find me?" she demanded. 

"Hello to you as well."

"I'm serious. How did you do?"

"I suppose you checked out my identity with the police in Salcombe?"

"If I hadn't of done, I wouldn't be here, now would I? How did you find me? It's important."

"Doctor Ethridge."

"What?"

"Brilliant cardiologist. For the past few years she's shifted the focus of her research to cases of idiopathic pericarditis. Not a very common illness, not an idiopathic case of it anyway. Recently published a case study on a young woman with persistent pericardial effusion due to idiopathic pericarditis. Eventually resolved with a combination of physical therapy and steroids."

"Doctor Ethridge only ever knew me as Isabelle Hennessy," Kendall said quickly. "She could've told you."

"She didn't. She wouldn't, even to a colleague. You should know that people with rare disorders can change their names, but hiding... when it comes to the right people, hiding isn't an option. That, and you should talk to your brother about this. He's not too sharp about these things."

Kendall shook her head. "Clearly you came here for something. So what is this?"

"Look, someone stole your identity and took your job in London."

"Yeah, I know."

"Can you put me in contact with her?"

"With who?"

"The woman who impersonated you?"

"What makes you think I can?"

"Because she took over your forensics job. According to the Yard, she had all of your skills. Including some complicated tracking thing that you basically invented."

"The black box tracker, yeah," Kendall replied. "I've written papers and technical documents on it."

"It's a lot more likely that she knew you somehow. Maybe you two met. Maybe she took over for you in London to draw attention back to Salcombe so the investigation could be complete."

"You're daft."

"So she was able to take over your whole identity, having never met you once?" John asked. "I'm not interested in turning her in. I'm just trying to contact her."

Kendall considered his words. "I suppose I do owe you something for helping Caroline in Salcombe, cleaning up that whole mess. But I don't know much. A woman contacted me when I was still in Salcombe, told me she could put in touch with a doctor who could help me."

"Let me guess, she had conditions?"

"Not really. She warned me that I'd need to relocate to Swadlincote."

"And you just happened to change your name in the process?" John asked skeptically.

"You know how expensive it is to have a condition like mine?" she asked. "Add to it the fact that my case is 'idiopathic.'"

"That's what the NHS is for."

"The NHS? You serious? That's all geared for cures, not treatments. A few months ago, I had a cold that lead to a sinus infection. My general doctor prescribed me something that made my condition worse, which sent me to a specialist, who was clueless about it. Nothing worked. Eventually another specialist tried to tell me I was under too much stress my illness was just a psychosomatic response. An anxiety disorder."

"You had pericardial effusion, that – "

"Does not come from anxiety disorders, I know that," she replied. "But until that happened, that's what the NHS paid to treat me for. If that woman hadn't called me, I might be dead by now. I certainly wouldn't be well enough to work."

"So, she offered you this connection, and that's it?" John said, trying to steer her back to the topic at hand.

"No. I did help her acquire my identity, briefly. I had no idea she was going to stage an abduction. She was only supposed to go to London to get resources out to Salcombe, and to work a case there."

"So you didn't know her before all this happened?" John asked. "From school maybe? Someone you met at the library?"

"I only ever met her the once," she replied. "Honestly, she kind of put me off."

"How do you mean?"

"You mentioned about the technology I work with, the black box tracker. She already knew everything about it. I'm not saying it's impossible, but most people struggle with the documentation. She's... the kind of brilliant that's a bit scary. From me? That's saying something."

"The investigation into your disappearance is still ongoing," John added. "Sooner or later, they will pronounce you dead. Is that your plan? I mean, if this identity was just for your health care – "

She interrupted, "Look, as soon as I can, I'll go back to the Yard. But I can't do that right now."

"Why not?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I was led to believe you were dead, so I pushed for the Yard to investigate that possibility. But now that I know that's not true, I could, possibly, dissuade them from that. Put them onto a different direction, maybe. But to do that, I need something."

"Isabelle Hennessy, the identity this woman set up for me, works for Mr. Samson Leavitt. He hired me as a private investigator, posing as his assistant. That put me onto another case. I was only supposed to be gone until my health cleared up, if it cleared up. I wasn't expecting this case, and I can't drop it now. And no, I can't tell you any more than that."

"Right then. Here's my actual contact information. In case you run into anymore trouble."

 

Molly woke up, seating in a moving vehicle. Her memory felt foggy, but she had vague recollections of someone half-carrying her to the car. The idea nearly jolted her awake, but a haze weighed heavily on her.

"What's going on?" she asked no one in particular.

"It's nothing," a man said quietly. "Go back to sleep, Molly."

She recognized John Watson sitting next to her, also asleep. Across from them both was Sherlock Holmes. Comforted, she slipped back into her dreams.

 

 **Muirhouses outside of Edinburgh, Scotland**. John Watson woke up in his outerwear, spread across a bed. He turned over to find Molly Hooper adjacent, also fully dressed. It took him several minutes to register this situation as odd.

Then he sat up. He thought hard about the past few days. He had gone out to South Derbyshire to find Red Kipling Berwyn, who had already pointed him in the direction of the still-alive Indigo Kendall Berwyn. Then he returned to London and escorted Molly through Saint Bart's. He had a feeling like he had taken his old pain medication, or a very strong sedative, the night before, but he couldn't remembering having done so.

"Sherlock!" he yelled.

"Not so loudly, John, this place hasn't the thickest of walls," Sherlock said coming from the other room. "You're awake, finally."

"Why am I in bed with Molly?" John demanded.

"As both of you were unconscious at the time, I got the choice of room. Didn't seem fair to put either of you on the couch. You two will have to sort that out for yourselves."

"Sherlock, what the hell are you on about? Why aren't we in the flat?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Perhaps that dose was too strong for you. You should really remember all this. Fascinating."

"Dose? Dose of what?"

"That's not important. Edinburgh awaits, John! We've a case!"

"A case? Sherlock, we already had a case!"

"I'm fairly certain this one is related."

"So, let me just get this straight: last night, you drugged Molly and I and brought us to Edinburgh because you found a case that may be related to what's happened back in London."

"Obviously. Originally, I had planned to leave Molly at the flat, but after you refused to leave her alone, I concluded her experience would be invaluable. So I had her alone as well."

"Did you even ask?"

"Ask? Why would I?" Sherlock dismissed. 

Molly took this moment to stir. 

"Ah, excellent, Molly!" Sherlock said. "Now that you're both awake, we can discuss the case at hand."

"Fine, fine," John said, his temper getting the better of him. "Why are we in Scotland, Sherlock?"

"A kidnapping," he said brightly as Molly got her feet. "Shall we?"


	6. Sieve and Cypher

Molly had known Sherlock Holmes to be a self-centered maniac from time to time, but she had never imagined that he would abduct her and act as if it were perfectly normal. Had she had her druthers, she would've slapped him both ways before letting him speak.

"Molly, Dr. Reid Fillmore is awaiting your presence at the local morgue," Sherlock said. 

"What are you on about? I thought this was a kidnapping."

"Indeed. But ten years ago, three of the kidnapping victims were found dead."

"Sherlock, have you gone mad?" John asked. "The whole reason I insisted on brining Molly was – "

"Don't be so tedious, John," Sherlock interrupted. "Molly has proven herself more than capable of defending herself. Her attacker had stealth, strength, and speed, and she not only got away, she injured him. She doesn't need protection."

"She was attacked, Sherlock. She's been threatened ad follow, and - "

"Exactly the reason for our precipitated exit from London. Following Molly on her mind-numbing daily routine is one thing. Following her, well, following me, out of the country is another thing entirely."

"It's all right, John," Molly spoke up before John could protest. "You want me to look at three bodies from ten years ago?"

"We've just one at the moment. Something about permission to dig them up. The others should be along shortly."

"You're forgetting something, Sherlock," John said.

"No, I've thought of everything."

"You're dead. If you're dead, how are you investigating this case?" John asked.

"He's a point," Molly said.

"According to my identification, I am Samuel Dalton," Sherlock replied as he donned cap with a lip to cover his eyebrows and eyes. 

John and Molly shared a glance that Sherlock completely missed. 

"Right, I'm off to the morgue," Molly said quickly. "You ought to leave your long coat here, Sherlock."

"Why should I do that?" he asked as she disappeared into the other room.

 

John discovered that Sherlock wasn't being an absolute prat after all. The hat, a shorter coat, and light trousers gave him a distinctly different appearance. Two black cars arrived: one for Molly, the other for John Watson and one Samuel Dalton. As far as false names went, John thought Sherlock could do better.

"I see that you and Mycroft are getting on," John commented as he got into the car.

"Hardly. I'm merely tolerating his help, and it's only a matter of time before he'll be leveraging this."

John changed topics quickly. "Right, anyway, you going to tell me about this case? Where are we going?"

"Two days ago Adrian Thomas went missing. His husband, Sean O'Reilly, received a ransom note. It's similar to those received by the three families almost a decade ago."

"So somebody, what, kidnapped several people ten years ago and started up again a few days ago?" John asked. "Were there others?"

"Undoubtedly, unfortunately none were reported. Technically, this most recent kidnapping hasn't been reported, either."

"Then, what, someone put you in contact?"

"There were three victims found, dead, weeks after they were kidnapped. Coroner's report identified cause of death as dehydration. Apparently, when the families could not pay the ransom, they were just left to die."

"You said this wasn't reported, the most recent one," John said. "Does that mean he, what, hired you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. He doesn't know we're coming."

"Brilliant. Why are we here?"

"Why are we here? An infamous case reopens with a lead after ten years. Where else would we be?"

"In London figuring out who attacked Molly."

"Already know who attacked Molly."

"Yes, Sherlock, but why? Doesn't that make you curious? Isn't that what you do? Solve the puzzle?" John said, more loudly than he intended. 

Sherlock didn't respond. 

"Listen, did it ever occur to you that, maybe, what's happening to Molly is your fault?"

"You think I sent someone to attack her?"

"No, but she worked closely with you. She helped you. Your reputation and habit of offending everybody around you affected how people treated her."

"So, other people not liking me started to not like Molly, which eventually somehow led to her being attacked by a known criminal who had just faked his own death?"

"Faked his own death?"

"Obviously."

"Maybe it was just a mistake in identity."

"The decapitated Wendell had two forms of id in his pocket and someone who acted as a next of kin who confirmed his identity. Not to mention he had witnesses on scene that named him. And he was pronounced dead before he was killed. That's not a mistake. There was a clear plan in place. Somehow, either they chemically induced a death-like trance, or they paid off or staged the EMTs or doctors. Too many variables to be certain, since I couldn't go to Bart's myself or talk to those who participated. But it was calculated."

"What about the bit where he got his head cut off?" John asked.

"Isn't that obvious?"

"Nothing that you said is obvious. Make that a standing rule."

"Someone had been impersonating Wendell. That's why witnesses identified him as the decapitated man."

"So, an impersonator fakes his own death under the assumed name, only to be decapitated before he can escape from the morgue. And a week later, the man he impersonated breaks into the morgue for some reason, distracts security, and attacks Molly?"

"You are paying attention."

"Sherlock, none of that makes any kind of sense," John said, lowering his voice to a hiss. "For one thing, who decapitated him?"

"Not now, John, it appears that we've arrived."

 

John knocked on the door for number five three seven, and he immediately heard movement. 

"Who are you?" a man asked.

"My name's John Watson. Can I come in?" 

"What do you want?"

"We're here to talk about Mr. Adrian Thomas, now let us in," Sherlock demanded.

Oddly, Sean obliged and let them in. "Are you here about me getting Adrian back?" he asked. 

Sherlock did a quick sweep of the environment. Sean O'Reilly and Adrian Thomas lived in a medium-sized flat in Edinburgh. They had a lovely view of the alley between their building and another one only a few feet away. All in all, they had a decent, albeit affordable, home. 

"Yes, that's the general idea," Sherlock replied.

"Sorry, who are you?"

"Samuel Dalton."

"Why did you take my husband? And this ransom demand? Two hundred thousand quid? If I had it, I'd give it to you – "

"We're not the kidnappers," John interrupted. "We're, uh, investigators, of a sort."

"If you're not them, then how do you know about this?" Sean demanded.

"We don't have time," Sherlock said sharply. "You must know that the people responsible for taking Adrian are more than capable of killing him. You said they wanted two hundred thousand."

"I think you should leave," Sean said. "Now."

John stepped in. "We've a case history going back ten years. We're not police. We're nobody. But we might be able to help you."

"Look, between Adrian and I, we've about two thousand quid. When he went missing, I tried to report it, but this ransom demand... I tried to tell them I couldn't pay that much, but it was like a recorded message or something."

"What's your job?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"Your job. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm still a student, studying Architecture."

"And your husband? What does he do?"

"He works at the Passport Office."

"How long?" Sherlock asked.

"Since between it changed names," Sean replied. "Why are you asking me about our jobs?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he asked, "Either of you have relatives of means?"

"No," Sean said. "My parents live in a retirement community. Adrian just has the one brother, and he's working to put himself through medical school." 

"They gave you a ransom they knew you couldn't pay," Sherlock said quickly. "Perhaps they mean to coerce you into taking funding form an illegitimate source."

"You mean a loan shark?" John asked.

"Don't," Sherlock said. "They don't mean for you to pay this ransom, do you understand?"

Sean shook his head. "No."

John turned to Sherlock, "I'm with him Sher- uh, Sam. Why would you go to all the trouble of kidnapping someone knowing the family can't pay?"

Sherlock ignored them both. "It's important that you tell no one that we were here. Continue in your present pattern of ineffectual pleas as if nothing has transpired. I'm assuming you are capable of that, are you not?"

"Why? What's going on?" Sean asked. "Is my Adrian even still alive?"

John stepped in, glad that Sherlock did not reply immediately. "They want you panicked and overtired and scared out of your mind. You should give them as much of that as you can without actually falling apart. Your husband is still alive."

"We need to make a recording of the ransom request," Sherlock said shortly. 

Sean stalked off into his bedroom and returned shortly with his cell phone. Before he handed it off he said, "Will you tell me what's going on? I don't understand. And I'm not sure you're helping."

"Don't worry about understanding," Sherlock replied as he took the phone. "Do you know where he was abducted?"

"What?"

"He was kidnapped, wasn't he? Do you know from where?"

"Somewhere between the passport office and here," Sean replied. "He stops off at an Italian place sometimes when I've studying to do. I'm not sure, though. I just don't know."

It was clear that Sean O'Reilly was in no condition to continue standing, let alone talking to an agitated Sherlock Holmes, so John guided him to his own couch and did his best to console him while Sherlock copied the recording. Luckily, brewing a cuppa did calm him down a peg. By the time they left, Sean O'Reilly was breathing evenly silently over his tea.

"Was that really necessary?" John asked as they walked down the stairs to their car. 

"Absolutely. I believe I've just uncovered the true nature of these kidnappings."

"You mean beyond the money?"

"They're not about money, John. They've never been about money. Sometimes I wonder if you're paying attention at all."

 

In the past week, Molly had been questioned by the police, attacked in her own morgue, stalked, and kidnapped. The only peace she had was that the last incident occurred as a countermeasure to the first three, though it was little to settle her nerves.

Luckily, Dr. Reid Fillmore was a middle-aged man with spindly arms and legs. His mannerisms were underscored by his incredibly thick glasses, which enlarged his eyes nearly twofold. Something about him, how he worked, put Molly at ease.

"Unfortunately the family of the third request, uh, Nathaniel Ronald Keating, refused his exhumation."

"We've still got two. You managed to convince the families? That's impressive."

"No convincing needed. They never got any answers. Let's see if we can fix that, starting with Ms. April Emerald Knight here."

"Right," Molly agreed.

Given the time passed, the body had been well preserved. 

"Died at age twenty-eight," Reid said. "The ligature marks are still clearly visible on her wrists and ankles. Original tox screen showed a cocktail of sedatives, probably used to keep her quiet."

"Testing of brain and other tissues didn't indicate long-term sedation," Molly said, glancing at the file. "Original autopsy noted additional injuries to the hands, wrists, and fingers, but they're not consistent with torture or trauma."

"Stress injuries," Reid chimed in. "According to her parents, she worked as an artist in a number of mediums."

Molly flipped through the case file. "Did they mention the kinds of art? Glass blowing? Blacksmithing? Metal works?"

"I don't recall. But I do remember that there was a gallery of her original works featured for several months in her memory, put together by her friends, at one of the downtown galleries."

"Can we get imaging?" Molly asked. 

"It'll take some time, but we can use one of the machines if you'd like. Did you have something in mind?"

"Her arms and hands. The report says the skin of her upper right arm was irritated. No trace evidence. The original scans don't really do. I'd like to confirm stress injuries if possible."

"All right. Not sure if that matters, really. Not if it happened before she was kidnapped."

"Everything matters. It's just hard to tell how much sometimes," Molly replied. 

"You want to get started on the second body? While I process the imaging?"

"Yeah, sure."

Once Reid rolled the body down the hall, Molly searched her coat for her phone. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen it all day, and it was more than possible that Sherlock left it in London. She turned to the mortuary's ancient computers, both of which had acceptable internet access. It only took her about five minutes to find articles related to April Knight's posthumous gallery of original art.

 

John and Molly sat down for dinner in their odd hotel room. Sherlock paced as they ate, insisting that they were wasting time.

"Are you going to tell us what this is about, by any chance?" John asked as he finished off his chicken. "How is this kidnapping related to what happened to Molly?"

"Molly, what did you find at the morgue?"

After chewing her rice, she turned to Sherlock. "Both had been bound and left to die, eventually dehydration caught up with them. Though it looks like they were sedated before being abandoned. That folder there has imaging of April Knight's remains. The one beneath it is for Peter Branson. Their autopsies missed several key facts. Branson's body showed stress reactions that weren't included in the autopsy, all of which were incurred about a week before death. But April's file – "

"A small piece of metal; a sliver of it, like a splinter," Sherlock said, having opened the file itself. "Copper. Interesting."

"Her work in art included creating her own printing plates. It's a shame. She was quite talented."

"Her parents received a ransom note?" John asked. "Said they wanted one hundred thousand. They're both cabbies, aren't they? And the Bransons, they both did some kind of manufacturing." He set aside his fork and sat back, frustrated. "This doesn't make any sense. They're just like Sean O'Reilly. Why go to the trouble of abducting someone, putting together a ransom, all for people who can't pay?"

"Probably weren't looking for money," Molly said as she ate the last of her green beans. "Maybe they had access to something of value. Rare artwork, or even something like medical supplies."

"Peter Branson worked at the Department for Transport," Sherlock said suddenly. "The third man. Where did he work?"

John looked at Molly, who shrugged. She said, "Nathaniel Keating. He taught math to elementary students."

"And?" Sherlock prompted. 

"I didn't get to examine his body," Molly replied.

"What? Why?" 

"He was buried in Germany," she replied. "His father is Scottish, but his mother is a German national. His autopsy was more thorough, though. He had sustained a serious beating before being abandoned."

"Was he raised in Germany?" Sherlock asked.

"Partly, yes," Molly replied.

"Does it matter?" John asked.

"Yes, of course it matters!" Sherlock said loudly. "He's the outlier. All the others – the artist, the man from department for transport, even Adrian, he's at the passport office – they all had special skills that our kidnappers required."

"What? You think they were part of some kind of criminal activity?" John asked. 

"No, John, they were abducted, held captive, not for ransom, their families couldn't manage that. No, they were held for their skills. The ransom was just a cover. Their families can't produce the funds, try to negotiate, eventually the bodies show up and no one is the wiser."

"You think they abducted these people for some kind of job, then covered it up with ransom demands?" John asked. "That's mad."

"Clever, actually. That's why the later kidnappings were never reported. Those abducted wouldn't willingly confess to their illegal activities, not if they couldn't identify their captors. They'd be complicit in everything, and I'm sure the threat of murder was used as needed."

"Complicit in what exactly?" Molly asked, sitting back. "And how is this related to the decapitated man?"

Sherlock shook his head vigorously, as if he couldn't believe the question. "Don't either of you see? Tell me, John, what would you need to make a new identity."

"Uh, I dunno, some kind of identification. Birth certificate, driver's license – "

"Or a passport," Sherlock said. "All of the above, actually. It would also be helpful to have medical records, dental modifications, even, depending on how detailed the identity needs to be. I imagine they had at least one person to handle medical forgeries. Someone with April Knight's skills would improve the quality of all their forgeries, even counterfeit bills if needed. Branson had access to transport information and documentation. Keating, having spent enough time abroad, could've given them some kind of insight into German transit or geography."

"Obviously," John whispered sarcastically to Molly.

"Can't be certain how many they've taken. We'll need to get the missing persons reports in the past decade for all the urban centers in the UK," Sherlock said.

"Great. I'll call Lestrade. Oh, one thing, Sherlock, where is my phone?" John asked. "I've been waiting for Donovan's call."

"Both your phones are back in London. There wasn't time to arrange for clones."

"You haven't answered my last question," Molly said. "How is this related to the decapitated man?"

"Bernard Thomas," Sherlock replied. 

"Sorry, who?" 

"Barry?" Molly asked. "He works at Bart's. He's a technician."

"Working to pay for medical school," Sherlock added. "Brother to Adrian Thomas, our recently abducted passport expert."

"Adrian Thomas was fine until about two days ago, wasn't he?" John asked. "The decapitation, all that, it happened over a week ago."

"Yes, that is troubling. But it can't be a coincidence that the brother of the first known kidnapping victim in ten years just happened to be on scene at Bart's when the decapitated man appeared."

"But Barry wasn't there in the morning," Molly said. "He comes in the late morning. Sometimes he comes in early and we have tea. He's a nice bloke. He's not the type to decapitate someone."

John realized something. It was something about how Sherlock said 'first known kidnapping victim.' 

"You know who it is," John said over Molly. "The person behind all this. People in London faking their deaths, among them the real Gregory Wendell, and the kidnappings out here, making new identities for them, right? You didn't make that connection till just now, the new identities, did you? So the only way you could've done, connected these cases, was if you knew who was behind them."

"I knew you'd pick up the habit of observation," Sherlock said proudly. "You're correct. All this is at the behest of one Sebastian Moran, who was recently being held captive in Caterham. This kidnapping coincides almost immediately after his escape."

"You're serious?" Molly asked. 

"When ever am I not?" Sherlock demanded. "Now, we need those missing person cases, and any new reports. Sebastian Moran has been careful, but I imagine his schedule has rather been disrupted by his captivity."

"So, this man, Moran, he was kidnapped by someone else?" John asked. "Was it Mycroft?"

"Don't be ridiculous, if Mycroft held him captive he wouldn't have escaped. No. This was someone else."

"Shouldn't we start there, then?" Molly asked. "I mean, trying to find out who had him? If someone kidnapped me and forced me to become complicit in something illegal, then, I wouldn't want to involve the law, would I? But I would want revenge. I'd want him to suffer." She took a moment and added, "Obviously, Sherlock, I don't mean you."

Sherlock was too confused by her last comment to answer her.

"Actually, that's a good idea. His former abductees, assuming they were freed and allowed to live, would certainly want to do him harm," John said. "So, we're looking at people he could've abducted. And anyone who went missing for a few weeks who has resources now."

"Excellent. Let's get started."

"Tomorrow," John said, getting up from the table. "I'm knackered. And we can't do anything till we have those reports. I guess that means you should call Mycroft, doesn't it?"


	7. Mnemonic

Lestrade slouched over his desk as he tried to finish another bout of paperwork, but his mind kept drifting. He hadn't heard a word from John or Molly since they met with Donovan. No pestering phone calls. No response to his texts. Nothing.

"Lestrade!" Donovan said as she burst through the door. She handed off a ruffled file. "The lab just sent me this. They ran a DNA test on the blood samples from the body bag of the decapitated man, originally identified as Gregory Wendell."

Lestrade's mobile beeped. He ignored it.

"How did this happen? He had several forms of id, and we had next of kin identify the body, didn't we?" Lestrade asked. 

"Yeah. Wendell's wife, Riley Wendell, confirmed it. Said he stormed out of the house a week before and she hadn't heard from him since. Funny thing, we can't get in touch with her. Officers checked her residence. She's been gone for days. Seems like she left everything but a few choice possessions. We're impounding her car now."

"Who the hell is Cypress Howard Hare?" Lestrade asked, reading from the file. "That's got to be an alias."

"No, it's not. He's registered as a Private Investigator, but a lot of his work was apparently in things like art recovery."

His mobile beeped again.

"You mean like stealing valuable items _back_?"

"Apparently," Donovan replied.

"Hold on. He was identified as Gregory Wendell. They look similar enough, but he's definitely taller. Anyone who knew Wendell would know better."

"Take a closer look at Wendell's rap sheet," Donovan said. "Smuggling and grand theft."

Lestrade's mobile beeped yet again.

"Is this right? Last arrest of Gregory Wendell was over three years ago," Lestrade said, consulting another file. "Around the time he got married."

"If Wendell went clean, then he's back in it now. Because the DNA we got off of Molly Hooper's clothing, the blood? That was Wendell's definitely. If nothing else, he was at St. Bart's and attacked someone."

"So, someone impersonated Wendell. The first attempt to kill him failed. Somehow, the killer got onto that when he was being moved to the morgue, and decapitated him."

Again, beeping emanated from his phone.

"Come on, that doesn't make any sense. Let's say someone tried to kill him. The first time it was, what, poison? Whatever it was, it was clever. Meant to look like natural causes. Killers don't go from that to cutting off someone's head with razor wire."

Lestrade nodded. "If the killer was desperate, he might do."

"Either way, Gregory Wendell's local residence was all cleared out, but Cypress Hare's offices and address are both out in Derbyshire. Figured we could take a car out there. Can you be ready in an hour?" 

"Yeah," Lestrade said.

Donovan turned to leave.

"Hang on," he said. "You won't believe this."

"What? John Watson's texting you information about cases now, right?" she said jokingly.

He handed her his phone. There were several text messages:

The first read, "Gregory Wendell, Cielo Wallen, and other missing bodies working together."

The second read, "C.O.D. and admin files will confirm."

The third read, "Need info on missing persons. See e-mail."

Donovan looked up at Lestrade, confused. She handed him back his phone. "You know, sometimes I wonder if Sherlock Holmes is really dead," she said simply. "You still on for Cypress Hare's office?"

"Yeah, give me an hour."

Donovan nodded and left immediately. 

She had said the words Lestrade had been thinking for weeks and weeks, but she didn't really mean them. He had to remind himself of that, because if someone else suspected Sherlock Holmes was alive, then... 

No, he wasn't going to entertain the idea. Whatever John Watson was up to, he clearly found something to justify messaging about it.

It certainly couldn't hurt to check.

Lestrade pulled up the digital case files on the recent missing bodies, dubbed by the Yard as the "Body Snatcher Case." In total, ten bodies had gone missing in the past three weeks. He made a mental note that the number should be raised to eleven, if Gregory Wendell was somehow connected to all this.

Caitlin Hanlon, died three weeks ago, C.O.D. heart failure. The body disappeared that same night.

Anthony Barbour, Gabriel Alcala, Ashley Waldrop, and Shane Ching all died between two and three weeks previous with the C.O.D. cardiac arrest. Fabian Javier, Max Thorson, Erin DeAngelis, and Cielo Wallen all died within the past ten days, and each had a heart-related cause of death. The only outlier was Xavier Light, who died from a severe asthma attack leading to asphyxiation. 

It was easy to see how such a connection was missed. In some cases, the individual had a history of heart problems or lung-related issues incorporated into the cause of death. The autopsies ordered were meant to confirm the cause of death and rule out things like clots or poison or other things described with medical jargon that Lestrade couldn't wrap his head around. None of the deaths were suspected homicides.

The Body Snatcher Case had attracted a lot of attention, but the investigation hadn't turned up any real leads. The running theory was that people wanted cadavers, and there were more colorful theories from cannibalism to Frankenstein's monster, but no one had considered faked deaths of any variety.

His train of thought was interrupted by another text: "Put APB. Some still in London." 

Another text followed immediately: "Bernard Thomas (St. Bart's employee) possibly involved."

The another: "Check zipper in decapitated man's body bag. Look for metal shavings."

Lestrade read over all the texts again. He quickly glanced through the files, but Bernard Thomas was only listed in the files for Gregory Wendell (technically, Cypress Hare) and Cielo Wallen.

Lestrade checked the time. His hour was almost up; he'd have to put a Sergeant on the Body Snatcher case before he left.

At least he had the car ride to clear his head.

 

"It doesn't make any _sense_!" Sherlock shouted.

John Watson had grown used to being woken by the dulcet tones of a frustrated Sherlock Holmes, but Molly Hooper evidently resented being woken from her sleep.

"Can't you be pensive in a quieter voice?" she mumbled.

"It's half past seven," Sherlock continued. "John? John!"

John felt stiff, having slept awkwardly on the couch, but he poked his head up just the same.

"What?" he asked.

John sat up and adjusted his clothing, allowing himself some time to wake up as Sherlock continued talking, pacing irritably as he did so.

"The missing persons, the missing bodies. They don't make sense. The pattern is clear. Kidnapping individuals who can create false documents or provide necessary contacts and information for new identities in other countries. The dead bodies that turned up were either noncompliant individuals or used as warnings or both. Between the threat of being starved to death or having their own hand in the illegal activity revealed, silence. Nothing. Not one guilty conscience went to the police. Not one vengeful vigilant. Not even a deathbed confession. For ten years. In all accounts, an impressive feat."

"Maybe they're selecting people that have criminal pasts. Or something else entirely to hide," John suggested. "Something more than the crimes they committed under duress."

Sherlock shook his head. "I've been through missing person's reports and even the personals. Hundreds of missing people that could be targeted by this group, but I hardly doubt all of them were. With no kidnapping reports or criminal charges filed, there's no – "

"Hang on, what reports?" John asked.

Sherlock waved his hand over to a mountain of boxes unpacked across the room. "Mycroft managed to get them," he added.

"Ah, right. Should we even be looking into missing persons? If you're right, and they're being kidnapped and coerced into keeping it quiet, wouldn't we be looking for people that disappeared for a few weeks and then turned up again?" John suggested.

"Something that wouldn't fit in their normal patterns," Sherlock said, continuing on John's thought. "A week-long drinking binge. A spontaneous vacation."

"Mmmm," John agreed. "Though I doubt all of them would be that colorful."

Sherlock continued to pace. 

"Look, I'm going to get dressed. Then we can talk properly."

"What's changed?" Sherlock asked, as if John had said nothing.

"What do you mean, 'changed'?"

"Don't you understand, John? The reason all of this is happening now is because of the missing bodies throughout London. For ten years, they managed to shift people into new identities without attracting much attention. If they had, then they've done a job of cleaning it up. But now they've had nearly a dozen bodies missing, all within a few weeks. And I was able to pick up their trail of kidnapping because of it. So what changed? Why now?"

"Maybe, when this, uh, Sebastian Moran character was being held prisoner, something forced the issue."

"Forced the issue?" Sherlock repeated. "If all you're going to say is nonsense, then say nothing."

John ignored Sherlock's response. "What I'm saying is that something threatened to expose everything, or everyone, or something, you understand?"

"Which would mean they had already planned," Sherlock said. "None of which explains the decapitated man or the attack on Molly."

 

It had been a stiff ride up to Derbyshire. Donovan couldn't believe Lestrade was acting on John Watson's texts. 

"Haven't you gotten into enough trouble, after everything with Freak?"

"His name was Sherlock," Lestrade reminded her. "And in case you've forgotten, his name was cleared."

"Yeah, but unless you've added John Watson as an official consultant, you can't be using him!" she replied. "Tolbert will have a fit. You understand? A fit."

"He's not consulting. Molly felt safer with him is all," Lestrade replied. "Look. You were with him. He's not investigating anything on his own, right? But he had an idea and texted me about it. Nothing official about it. So drop it, all right?"

The last two hours of the drive were spent in stony silence, and their investigation in Derbyshire did nothing to alleviate the tension.

The office of Cypress Hare had been closed for months, according to the local police. One officer said that Cypress mentioned going undercover, but he hadn't said any more. 

"Right, we need his records, then," Lestrade told the officer helping them, Randolph Ragland. "If he was under cover, then someone must've hired him to do it."

Ragland agreed reluctantly, but it didn't take him long to produce phone records.

"We started lookin' into it as soon as we got the call," Ragweed said. "'Fraid there wasn't much there."

"Have you spoken to this man?" Donovan asked. "Samson Leavitt. Seems to have had a lot of contact with him before he left Derbyshire."

"Ah, no, we didn't," Ragland replied. "Well, we called, but there's nothing to suggest he hired Cypress, now is there?"

"Did you check bank records?" Donovan asked. "Whoever hired Cypress would be paying him somehow, wouldn't they?"

"'Course we did. Nothing special. We're looking into the possibility of him having other accounts. Nothing so far."

"Donovan here is right," Lestrade said. "We should talk to this Samson Leavitt."

Ragland shrugged. "Might be hard. He's a busy man."

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged loaded glances as Ragland walked away. Either the investigation into Cypress Hare's death wasn't being pressed, or Samson Leavitt was a high profile individual.

Either way, they were in for a rough day.

 

Molly slipped into the bathroom. John took the opportunity of her vacated bedroom to shut the door in Sherlock's face so that he could change in peace. 

Sherlock, of course, continued to talk as if Molly and John were rapt with attention: "That means they had planned to move dozens of people. Change their identities. Send them out of the country. A massive operation, but what for? No apparent connection between missing bodies. Not all of them are known criminals... How would that even happen? Ha, John! JOHN!"

John stepped back into the room, dressed in black trousers and an undershirt. "You still talking, Sherlock?" he asked as he did up his belt. 

"The decapitated man," Sherlock said, as if it were a reply. "He was an imposter, we already know that. But why? You said Donovan was going to contact you with the name when they identified him."

"You abandoned my phone back in London, remember?" John replied. With that, he ducked back into the room for his button-up shirt.

He should have registered Sherlock's sudden silence as odd, but it only took him a moment to fix his shirt and even Sherlock had to shut his gob at some point.

"Look, I can call my voicemail – " John began as he returned to the primary room.

Sherlock was on his knees, weakly struggling, with another man's arm wrapped across his neck in a chokehold. The assailant was fairly short, around 1.7 meters tall.

"Stay there," the man huffed. He produced a small revolver. "Now, I could snap this man's neck and shoot you. Or we could go 'nother way. How does that sound?"


	8. Transmigration

"So, you're, uh, Gregory Wendell?" John asked.

"Never mind who I am," the man said as he finished checking the binding on Sherlock's hands. "Just do what I say and maybe you'll live."

Whoever he was, he wasn't versed in capture. It had taken him the better part of a thirty minutes to get John and Sherlock both bound properly in chairs ill-suited to the task, and his only weapon seemed to be his revolver. 

"Now, the two of you have been quite a problem," the man said. 

"How's that?" Sherlock asked. "Sorry, Gregory, but – "

"Ah, shut it!" the man said. "Just because you know my name don't mean nothing, you understand?"

"So you are Gregory Wendell. Not the decapitated one, obviously," John said.

"Folks call me Wen," he said simply. "You were at Bart's the other day," he said to John. "Then, what do you know? You two show up at Sean O'Reilly's flat. I can only imagine why that would happen."

"Just visiting an old friend. His husband's brother works at St. Bart's," Sherlock said quickly.

"That I could get," Wen replied. "I know it's a lie, o' course, but it would be a lot better of a one if this bleeder here hadn't dropped in on the bitch that made this whole thing happen."

He pointed his gun towards John.

"We've both spent time with Molly," Sherlock dismissed. "She works at St. Bart's as well."

"Who?" Wen asked. "Oh, that woman you kept for a bit, yeah. No, I'm talking about Isabelle."

John hadn't had the time to talk to Sherlock about his excursion or who he met there.

"Seems a bit of odd for someone from London first to go up to South Derbyshire then out to Edinburgh."

"What is he talking about?" Sherlock asked. 

"Nothing," John said quickly. "I don't know what he's talking about."

The butt of the gun cracked into his knee. "I already know you're neck deep in all of this. But, if you tell me how much you know, I'll put you on a freighter. It'll be hell for about a month, but if you survive, you'll live. Wouldn't that be nice?"

 

Samson Leavitt was an influential man. Actually, that was putting it lightly. His family had been involved in local politics and service for hundreds of years. His mother was a highly regarded doctor, and his father had been governor for several years. But as soon as Donovan mentioned Cypress Hare, the man's schedule became completely free. He offered to meet them as soon as they could arrive at his estate.

As they parked the car, Lestrade received a call. 

"Don't tell me that's John Watson again," Donovan warned.

"No, it's Sergeant Miller, I put her on the decapitation. She probably has something. I'll catch up, go on," Lestrade replied.

A spry young woman in a smart suit greeted Donovan. "I'm Lou," she said. "I thought there was two of you?"

"Yeah, here he is," Donovan said. 

Lestrade approached, slightly shaking but covering well. Donovan wanted to ask, but she decided she'd pursue it later.

"Right this way," Lou said. "Mr. Leavitt is on his way back from Spain. He wanted you to meet with the woman in charge of his affairs, Izzy."

"I thought we were meeting with him," Donovan said.

"His apologies," Lou said simply. "He had trouble arranging immediate transport. There were delays. Ah, here we are."

She stepped into a large office and held the door open for them. A young woman waited for them on the other side of the desk. Something about her seemed so _familiar_ to Lestrade.

"Isabelle Hennessy, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade and Detective Sergeant Donovan," Lou introduced. "This is Miss Izzy. She'll answer all your questions."

And with that, Lou bowed out.

"Mr. Leavitt told me that you had some questions about Cypress Hare," Isabelle said. 

"He's dead," Lestrade said harshly. "For over a week now. Took us a while to give notice, see, because he was originally identified as Gregory Wendell."

"He's dead?" Isabelle repeated. "He's dead?"

"Yeah, and we have reason to believe you or Mr. Leavitt hired Hare," Donovan replied. 

"Uh, yes, we did," Isabelle replied. "You said he was dead under another name? Is that right?"

"Gregory Wendell," Donovan repeated.

"If that's true, then, uh, I should probably go into some kind of protective custody."

"How's that?" Lestrade asked.

"Cypress was investigating an abduction. He said he found his way in under an assumed identity, and he told me he'd keep me posted. But his last contact, it was... hold on," she scrambled through a pile of papers until she produced a burner phone. 

Donovan took the phone and read the message out loud, "Transmigration. Will report back ASAP."

"Transmigration?" Lestrade asked. 

"This was sent nearly two weeks ago," Donovan said. "Didn't it concern you?"

"No. I mean, yes, but not in the assuming he was dead category," Isabelle stumbled through her reply. "Look, he was deep into this group, trying to figure out their end game. He found out there were three essential stages with this particular employer."

"Stages? What, for a promotion?" Lestrade asked.

"For lack of a better word. For the most part, everything seemed like run of the mill organized crime. First stage, you have to be recommended and the prove yourself. Second stage, you become a valuable member. He had achieved that. The last stage – that's this transmigration he mentioned – he just qualified for it. He said he'd send a full report, but that it could take several weeks before that happened."

"So you're telling us that Cypress Hare got involved in organized crime over, what, an abduction case you said?"

Isabelle nodded. "Yes. Look, I can tell you everything I know. But if they figured out that Cypress wasn't who he said he was, then it's possible they know I hired him. And it'll be better for Mr. Leavitt if I'm not here."

Donovan pulled her phone, "I'll make the arrangements." She got up and walked a few paces to make her call.

"Transmigration," Lestrade repeated. "What else did he tell you about it?" 

She shook her head. "This text was all he sent me. But given the name, I assumed it was going to be an elaborate initiation process. Getting to that next level of trust. But all I have to go on was his text. And he mentioned something about multiple people working together for it to happen, but he wasn't clear on the details."

"It looks like they first tried to kill him with poison. Something that stopped his heart. When that didn't work, they cut off his head. Does that ring anything for you?" 

Isabelle shook her head. "No. All I know is that Cypress was supposed to undergo this transmigration about a week ago. They cut off his head?"

Lestrade nodded.

Donovan approached them. "We got the go-ahead to take her in. You ready?"

 

Sherlock wasn't certain who he should be more upset with: John Watson, for withholding valuable information from him, or Gregory Wendell, who failed rather spectacularly to extract said information from him. It had all become rather boring very quickly.

"Just tell me about the girl," said Wendell again. "Then you two can be on that cruise I promised you."

"Oh, John, just tell him!" Sherlock shouted. 

"Shut it, Sher – Samuel!" John barked back. "I don't know what this man is talking about."

"The trip you took before we came out here. You left for over a day!" Sherlock yelled back. "So out with it, John! You might as well!"

"I just needed to get away from you and your nonsense!" 

"Here we go, he's going to be on about every little thing now," Sherlock added in at a loud decibel. "It's always you keeping secrets and it's all my fault, every time. Isn't that right?"

"What the hell are you on about?" John shouted back.

Wendell started to reprimand them, but he dropped to the floor before any sound could escape from his mouth.

Molly Hooper stood over him, holding what looked like an old piece of pipe. Wendell began to move slowly, so she rushed over to Sherlock, then to John, and untied them. As soon as his hands were free, Sherlock tied both Wendell's hands.

"We need to get the bags," she said to John. "We've got a car coming, and someone will be along for him."

John didn't hesitate. He had a slight limp from being whipped in the knee, but otherwise, he moved quickly, gathering their things together with Molly's help. Luckily they only had a few bags with them, and by the time they had everything, Sherlock had hogtied Wendell and stuffed a gag in his mouth.

As they made their way out of the building, John shot a question at Sherlock. "What was all that about? With the yelling?"

"Obviously, Molly had finally gotten back into the room, and she needed to get close enough to hit him. Loud shouting covered her approach and expedited her attack," Sherlock replied. "Unfortunately, I didn't have much worth yelling, so I resorted to things other people shouted at you, namely women that you dated."

"Oh, cheers," John said sarcastically. "You all right, Molly?"

Molly nodded, but she continued pushing ahead. A car idled in the road, and she directed them to it.

It was only after all three of them piled into the car, and it pulled away, that she spoke up again.

"That was him, the man who attacked me. I recognized his voice when I was in the loo."

"You climbed out the window?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded. "Called for help. Your brother sent this along."

"You called my brother?" Sherlock asked.

Molly bit her lip. "Sorry, no. I didn't have my phone. Or your phone. I had to borrow one from that shop across the street. I had to call a number I knew."

"So who did you call?" John asked. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Lestrade," Molly said. "Sorry, he was the only one I knew who would call Mycroft if I asked. I didn't even think about it."

"What did you tell him?" Sherlock demanded.

"Nothing. Just that we were in trouble in Edinburgh and that I needed him to reach out to Mycroft for us. I didn't mention you at all, Sherlock, I'm sure he assumes it's just me and John."

Sherlock glowered. "Lestrade is not a idiot. He has his suspicions."

"Your welcome," Molly replied harshly. "For saving your life. Again."

"Thanks," John said. "For clocking that guy." 

"The important question is, who did you visit a few days ago, John?" Sherlock asked shrewdly. "And how is she connected to this case?"

 

Lestrade felt the anger bubbling to the surface, but now was not the time or the place for it.

"What's the matter with you?" Donovan asked. "Ever since that phone call, you've been in a right state. Did Miller tell you something?"

"It wasn't Miller," Lestrade replied. "Molly Hooper ran into a spot of trouble. She called for help."

"What? Why did she call you?"

"Because she didn't have a lot of choices. Look, I get it, you hate the idea of consulting detectives, but this was about protecting a witness."

"Right. All right. Then we need to get this case underway."

Lestrade's phone rang. This time it really was Miller. 

"Lestrade," he said as he answered the phone. 

"Speaker?" Donovan suggested. Lestrade obliged. 

"Listen, we've got Gregory Wendell in custody. He's currently being shipped off to us from Edinburgh," Miller said. "And that bit you gave me about the metal shavings paid off. We found the murder weapon."

"Metal shavings?" Donovan asked.

"Where was it?" Lestrade asked.

"It was drawn into a receding pouch, like how some slacks have draw strings. Except this one was designed to lose the string, or rather the wires."

"So the razor wire was still in the body bag?" Donovan asked.

"Yes, I've got techs working on extracting it without damaging the internal structures. Whoever did this rigged the bag up before the body was in it."

"Do you know who set it up?" Lestrade asked.

"No, still working on that. I'll let you know once Wendell is here. And if I get any more information on this decapitated case."

"Good. Lestrade and I will be headed back shortly," Donovan said.


	9. A Little Inconvenience

The majority of the car ride was stuffy and silent. Molly seemed shaken over the whole affair, while Sherlock remained flabbergasted with John's excursion to South Derbyshire. John tried to explain, briefly, about his search for Indigo Kendall Berwyn and the subsequent trip, but Sherlock didn't respond. He sulked. Or perhaps he was deep in thought; John never could decipher between the two.

At some point, John fell asleep. He must have done, because the next thing he remembered, it was night, and Sherlock was coaxing him to get onto a helicopter. John dimly acknowledged that they were on a hospital helipad, but he was too tired to ask any questions.

"Sherlock," Molly began. "Where are we going?"

"We're going to the source. There is one man who started all this. I should've _seen_ it. The brazen kidnapping, enough to rally the suspicions of Mycroft or myself... it was all a distraction. Wendell was sent after us because Moran knew I'd go straight to Edinburgh, where I thought it all started."

That woke John up.

"Sorry, you think this man knows you're alive?" John asked.

"It's entirely possible he knows or at least suspects. Ten years ago, I pointed the investigation towards Moran, but nothing came of it."

"Because there wasn't enough evidence?" Molly asked. 

Sherlock shrugged. "Still, I marked him. It's not coincidence that the kidnapping happened in Edinburgh, where I first picked up his scent, as it were."

"Sherlock, if someone else thinks you're alive... that's not good, is it? Wasn't the whole point of faking your own death... wasn't there a point?" John asked, fumbling his words.

"Of course there was!" Sherlock replied. "Moran was groomed by Moriarty. He's connected to him but not part of the network I've been working to bring down." 

"So if he knows you're alive, isn't the jig up?" John asked. "You'd have to stop being dead officially?"

Sherlock shook his head, but he made no reply. He looked out the window and drifted off into thought.

"You all right?" John asked Molly.

"Yeah."

"Must've been nice, to drop the man that attacked you."

"A little," Molly admitted. "But to be honest, I was in the loo, and when I heard his voice... I, uh... I... just sort of froze. For a long time."

"But not forever, and that's what counts."

"Is this what it's like?" she asked. "Working with Sherlock? Does it always feel so... never ending."

"Sometimes, yeah. But, though he might be a bit of a prat, don't forget we've got Sherlock Holmes on our side."

"Of course."

The belligerent sound of the helicopter filled the awkward silence.

 

Sally Donovan escorted Isabelle Hennessy into the securest room in the morgue. 

"Is this the final report?" Isabelle asked as she picked up the medical examiner's file. 

"As far as I know. According to forensics, this body bag was modified to include a tension-drawn razor wire, placed right across the neck. Once done, the wire receded back into this lining pocket to disguise the mechanism."

Isabelle flipped through the report, not entirely listening. But she replied, "The only way for that to happen would be for the wire to be cut after... the decapitation. I imagine the best way to hide such a thing would be to disappear the entire body bag. Swap it out for a replica, or just plain steal it."

Donovan shrugged. "Sure, but that didn't happen. One of the pathologists was attacked about a week later. It's possible that the attacker was here to steal the bag."

"Over a week later? The evidence was already processed."

"We just found this as of this morning."

Isabelle stopped. "So the person who examined the body, who did this report, didn't mention the wire at all?"

"He didn't see it. It was well hidden."

"Maybe he did see it," Isabelle suggested. "Maybe he cut the wire. Have you checked him out?"

"He's cleared to work here. No connections to organized crime. No red flags."

"He might not have had a choice," Isabelle replied. "That abduction I was looking into, that Cypress was investigating, one of the reasons it's been so hard to figure out is that a lot of the people involved were good people put in bad situations."

"Trust no one," Donovan said blandly. "I like that."

"Hold on, didn't your man Lestrade say something about him being poisoned first? Because I don't think that's what happened."

"Right then, enlighten me," Donovan replied. 

"There's a cocktail of drugs in his system, a combination of antagonists to the noradrenergic system with d-tubocurarine, likely from curare. Combined with any thing that could cause a mild hypothermia, and you'd be well on your way to inducing cataplexy."

"Sorry, what?"

"Cataplexy. Loss of muscle tone. It happens naturally during REM sleep and in some disorders it occurs randomly throughout the day. In extreme cases, the person is conscious but can't move at all. In very extreme cases, it can be difficult to find any signs of life – respiration, pulse, anything."

"So, he faked his death? Or was trying to?"

"This isn't a scifi movie," Isabelle said. "The EMTs might not have been able to find anything, but if he came to this hospital, the equipment certainly would've."

"First you're saying someone at the morgue must've covered up the wire. Now you're telling me someone was here to help him fake his own death?"

"Could even be the same person," Isabelle said. "That makes sense, doesn't it? Transmigration."

"You think this final phase requires people to fake their deaths?" Donovan asked. 

"That would explain the other missing bodies. They're not missing bodies. They're people who have all the paperwork to declare their former identities dead."

Donovan remembered reading the text from Lestrade's phone the previous day. Her stomach jolted. 

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," Isabelle said. "It's time for me to inspect the body."

"You sure about this?" Donovan asked automatically.

Isabelle nodded.

 

"John! Wake up!" Sherlock said loudly. "You need to escort Molly to the Yard."

John opened his eyes to find himself in yet another car. "Sorry, what are we doing?" he asked.

"I need to run down a lead, it'll take some time. You need to take Molly to Lestrade."

"What? Why?" Molly asked.

"Because you've been put at risk several times at my behest, and now we're flushing out Moran, you need to be protected," Sherlock said shortly. "Once Lestrade has Molly, meet me back at the flat."

"Don't I get a say in this?" Molly asked.

"No," Sherlock replied. 

"And why not?"

"Because Mycroft didn't collect Wendell last night. He escaped, and he'll be particularly unhappy with you, Molly, since you've now bludgeoned him and stabbed him. I imagine you'll be a target."

"Hang on, you serious?" John asked, detecting actual concern for Molly beyond Sherlock's general demeanor.

"Yes. This is my stop," Sherlock replied. 

He got out of the car and approached one of his homeless network contacts. John had already dialed Lestrade.

"You can't be serious," Molly said. "The man just kidnapped us both to Scotland on a whim, and now you're just, doing what he says?"

"You're right, he's off his rocker," John replied. "But Sherlock used my phone – which he said he didn't have – to text Lestrade a number of tips. If he's acted on any of them, Molly, we need to know."

"So you want me to pretend I need protection so I can get information?" Molly asked.

It hadn't occurred to John that the idea could be objectionable. "Basically. That all right?"

Molly didn't reply.

 

Sherlock approached Lindsey, one of his frequent contacts via the Homeless Network.

"Spare some change?" she asked.

"For what?"

"Cup of tea, of course," she replied.

Sherlock handed her a fifty-pound note. She didn't even blink. 

"Let's not wait for the water to cool," Sherlock said quietly. 

"Three blocks, take a right, and Max will be able to help you with that," she said. "Till I can get back to you."

Sherlock made short work of her instructions and found Max within the next ten minutes. Max was an older member of the Homeless Network, and she had experience with dodging organized crime. Part of that experience included knowing the haunts of certain groups or individuals.

"Hear you're looking for a pretty piece," said Max, her smile slightly crooked. "Trouble is, he hasn't been around much. But I think I got something for you."

"Lead the way," Sherlock said happily.

 

"Look, I know it's a little weird, and I'm sorry," John said. "Molly and I are coming to the Yard. I think we could be being followed or tracked, or at least Molly. Right? Thanks. Yes, we'll see you soon, Lestrade."

"That went well," Molly said, a quiet smile playing at her lips. It was the first time she looked like herself in days. The bruises on her face hadn't quite healed, but the smile brought back the old Molly Hooper.

"I'm glad you're here," John said to Molly. 

A scream dragged their attention to the front of the car. Their driver was pulled out with a knife at his throat, and two masked individuals took the front seats. One of them pointed a gun squarely at John's chest.

"Sorry," the woman with the gun said as her cohort pulled away. "But we needed a little leverage. Your attendance is required at the house of Sebastian Moran."

Molly didn't bother hiding her shock or the flicker of recognition at the name.

"Lovely. Will Sherlock be joining us?" John asked.

"Never you mind. Pass me your phones, electronics, and weapons. And don't think I won't shoot you."

 

Donovan didn't even knock before she entered Lestrade's office.

"Donovan, how did you – " he began.

"Shut it," she replied, shutting the door behind her. 

Normally Donovan kept a professional air about her, so her tone was particularly dire. Lestrade considered his words, but before he could think properly, she began to speak.

"So, according to Miss Isabelle Hennessy, the victim Cypress Hare had a cocktail in his system that suggested he attempted to fake his death with the help of someone at Saint Bart's. She also says that someone must've covered up the wire – probably the person who did the autopsy."

"All right, have we checked out whoever did the autopsy?" Lestrade asked.

"According to the paperwork, Molly Hooper."

"Is that right?" 

"Can't be. She was with officers or when the autopsy was being done."

"She was scheduled to do the man's autopsy, wasn't she? Maybe someone just mixed up the paperwork."

Donovan shook her head. "I checked into it. That man went from the EMTs, to the ER, down to the morgue all in under three hours. He jumped the morgue line for no good reason. That's not something that just happened. Someone at Bart's must've been in on it. Someone who can cover their tracks." She changed gears and continued, "Funny thing. Hennessy thinks that Transmigration requires the criminals to fake their own deaths. Start a new life. All those missing bodies? Not missing."

"Seriously?"

"I say funny because John Watson texted you something about that the other day, didn't he? About the bodies being alive and working together."

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, you read that out loud and laughed, as I recall."

"Is Sherlock Holmes alive?" Donovan asked bluntly.

"No, I don't think he is."

"You don't think? What does that mean?"

"It means I thought he was. I kept an eye on 221 B and John, looking for Sherlock."

"So you think he's alive?"

"After that mess out in Salcombe, yeah, I thought he might be!" Lestrade replied loudly. "But I've no proof, and if I tried to bring it up with anyone without proof, they'd just say I wanted him to be alive, wouldn't they?"

"So, as far as you know, Sherlock Holmes is dead. But John Watson has somehow absorbed his investigation and texting habits?"

"Something like that."

Donovan took a breath. "We need to figure out who at Bart's doctored the report. Chances are, that person also covered up the wire. Maybe even helped with the fake death."

"If this is some kind of conspiracy, why would they let him fake his own death, then kill him? Seems like it would attract too much attention."

"Unless they wanted to cast suspicion onto someone."

"Molly Hooper?" 

"That'd be my guess," Donovan replied.

"She and John Watson are heading in now. I'll start looking at who could be the man at Bart's. But I think we should bring in Bernard Thomas."

"Why's that? Another John Watson tip?"

"His name appears on the paperwork, doesn't it?" Lestrade hedged.

"Fine, I'll take a few and bring him in."

 

Max led Sherlock to a small cafe. Everyone looked away as they entered. A business of see no evil, report no evil.

"She's over there and waiting for you," Max said.

Sherlock replied. "You said this was about Sebastian Moran."

"Sure is."

Max left quickly, leaving Sherlock only a minute to make up his mind. He joined the young woman at her table. She had heavy shades on, so it was difficult to see much of her face. He had to sit down before he knew who she was.

"Elena Wilhelm-Glass," he said. 

"I think that was the name I used when we met the last time," the woman replied. 

"Not yours, I take it."

"No. You recognized the – "

"Old Spice, Swagger. Yes," he replied before she could say it. "What should I call you?"

"Elena is just as good a name as any."

"You keep turning up in my investigations, Elena. Care to explain?"

"You've got it backwards, boy," she said. There was a particular way that she said _boy_ , like the whole thing was a habitual phrase regardless of who she was speaking to. "You keep turning up in _my_ investigations."

Sherlock made short work of what he could see. She had mild bruises up her arm and scrapes on her hands, although they seemed to have rubbing injuries over them, like someone who worked with their hands after a bar fight. She was relaxed, and the only remarkable thing ordinary people would likely collect from her was the men's deodorant. When Sherlock had last met her, her hair and makeup were different, down to products, even. Her posture was stronger someone, as if previously she had been putting on a stooped posture. She used her right hand to handle pens, easily seen by the bump along her ring finger, but her left hand had signs of use, too. Perhaps she pretended to be left-handed from time to time? That seemed unlikely. 

"Your investigations?" Sherlock repeated. "So you're a detective, too?"

"This is disappointing. I thought you'd be more interested in Sebastian Moran. It's pure dumb luck that Lestrade managed to find Hennessy before Moran did."

"Don't you mean Kendall?"

"Does it matter?"

"According to John Watson, you knew about her new identity, where she was. You coordinated it all. Yet you said she was dead and buried somewhere in Salcombe."

"I also said you were due a little inconvenience."

"That's hardly a reason."

"Isn't it?" she asked. "Had I known you were still alive, I'd've never come to London. I put a lot on the line, as revealed to me quite recently by Sebastian Moran."

"What's your interest in him?"

"You got that backwards, too," she replied. "Sure I put Kendall out in South Derbyshire to root around for him, but that's just because I wanted him exposed."

"So you knew all about his criminal ring? Over a decade of murder, kidnapping, and forgeries, and you couldn't be bothered with it?" he asked. "Who are you?"

"Right now, I'm not the problem. Moran is. Moriarty was important to him. He's interested in ruining the people who killed him. Or put a dent in his ego."

"Moriarty killed himself."

"That doesn't matter to Moran," she replied.

"So he's after me because I'm the reason he's dead. Why is he after you?"

"Because I'm the reason he decided to kill himself. He couldn't take the idea that he wasn't the most notorious criminal mastermind as much as the world's neediest."

Sherlock changed the topic, "You killed a man with a pencil."

"A pencil was all I had."

"You were there to break out the second prisoner?" Sherlock asked. "Is that why you killed the guards?"

"I only killed the one guard. I imagine Moran took out the others for failing him."

Sherlock adjusted his deductions. It was clear to him that the containment center set up in that building was made to give the prisoner the impression that they were completely expendable. If Sebastian Moran pretended that he was held captive, he could've used the situation to extract information from a second captive. This would give him the upper hand in forming a survival bond.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Yes, I wanted the second prisoner. But I was too late."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning Riley Wendell had already served her purpose. Leverage against her husband and information."

"According to my brother, you've caused quite a few problems lately. Clearing my name being the least of them. Revealing some very embarrassing organized crime patterns involving law enforcement. Uncovering conspiracies. Freeing patsies. Apparently killing people with writing utensils. Under different circumstances, I might even be mildly impressed."

"Sebastian Moran is in London and looking for you. Should he be unable to find you, what do you think he'd do?"

"He'd probably do something foolish to draw me out."

"A sloppy kidnapping in Edinburgh. Seems foolish enough to me. I recommend you find him."

"And why's that?"

"He knows you're alive. So the next thing he'll take is leverage, if he can find any."

Sherlock didn't bat an eyelash at that. "You want to find Sebastian Moran?"

"I'd like him to be dead. Making him dead is not a personal goal."

"It just so happens that his bloodhound, Gregory Wendell, caught up with me. I put a tracker on him before we said our goodbyes. Care to join me?"

"So you can make deductions about me?" she asked. "Why is it you care so much?"

"Care is a strong word," Sherlock replied. "But in the past three weeks you've given my brother more than his fair share of headaches. Normally that is my doing. So whatever else you're up to, I confess myself interested in your general demeanor."

"You mean you want to see if you can tell the different between what I'm putting on for you to deduce and the real facts from your deductions. Have you figured out if I'm right or left handed yet?" she asked shrewdly. 

Sherlock wasn't certain about her. When he had last come into contact with her, she not only had different style and makeup products, but her posture was different. She had gestured more when she spoke. In many ways, she was like a serpent, shedding her skin into the next incarnation.

"My brother would be displeased to hear I'd worked alongside the Engineer," he said simply by way of invitation. "And according to my phone, Wendell has been stationary for over ten minutes. Care to see where he's settled?"


	10. Risorgimento

Molly felt something off about the whole affair. 

The masked woman removed the clip from John's gun as well as the batteries from their mobile phones, but then she handed the weapon back to him, unloaded. Molly didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but she didn't like it.

She also didn't like that neither the driver nor his gun-pointing companion made any attempt to conceal their destination or their route. Molly half-expected a passerby to spot the woman's pointed gun through the car's windows and call the police.

Once they arrived at an old building in the East End, they were escorted to a drab flat. No one bothered to tie them down or lock them in. Instead, both assailants stepped just outside of the living room and pointed their weapons at John and Molly.

"Is it just me, or is this weird?" Molly asked.

"Why are you asking me?" John replied.

"You've been kidnapped a lot, haven't you?"

"No, I... well, no, not that often. It's not as if it happens every day."

"Very nearly so recently," a new voice said. It was crisp and light.

The speaker was a burly man, nearly two meters tall, with bold, dark eyes and an oddly small nose. His features were fine, almost delicate, but his relative bulk overshadowed this until he stood directly under the dim lights.

"Ah, hello," John said, stepping in front of Molly.

"Don't bother. When I'm ready to kill you, you'll both be dead." He changed his disposition drastically and added, "We've not met. I'm Sebastian."

"Molly," she replied. "I hear you're the reason I was attacked in my morgue."

He laughed. "Sorry, love, but you? Ha! You were the one who stabbed Wen in the arm? Brilliant. The way he told it, you were an eight foot security guard!"

"What do you want?" John asked.

"Why, Sherlock Holmes of course!"

"He's dead," Molly said. "Maybe you missed the news."

"Oh, I know all about that," Sebastian said. "Sure, he's dead, but he's dead like all my guys. Guys. I used to say boys before, but these days... the 'sexual revolution' they call it. Can't really call 'em boys, not with half of them being women, now can I? So it's guys these days, isn't it? Anyway, it's like I was saying, Sherlock Holmes is just like all my guys: dead but alive. Part of his own _Risorgimento_. Cleaning up cases. Cutting up my mentor's good work."

"Your mentor?" John repeated. "That would be?"

"The Great James Moriarty, you prat," Sebastian glowered, sneering like a gargoyle.

"Ah, right him," John said, his hand automatically gliding towards his now-useless gun.

"Normally I don't bother with extras, you see. But you two just kept making it harder to pass you by. See, you," he said to Molly, "first I thought, if Jim didn't see you as worth a bullet, then why should I? But then, you convinced Mycroft Holmes, of all people, that his brother was dead. Looked him straight in the eye and said it, and there it was. That's a penny I could pick up later, now isn't it?"

"What do you want?" Molly asked.

"And this one here," Sebastian continued, indicating John. "He's suddenly all around the country, chasing after, what was it? Some kind of heart condition? You managed that one before me."

"Sorry, what did you manage?" Molly asked John.

"Nothing. Never mind," John said quickly.

"Now what's this about? You shy?" Sebastian asked. "That's sweet. But what I really need to know is how much you've gone and gotten on me and mine. So, who here is feeling up to chatting?"

 

Sebastian had asked one of the masked individuals to put on a pot. He made a show of taking off his shoes and getting comfortable and insisted, with this revolver, that John and Molly sit down to tea.

When the tray was set, neither Molly nor John took a bite of their biscuit or a sip from their cups.

"Don't be rude," Sebastian said as he started on his tea.

"Right, and we know this isn't poisoned or drugged how exactly?" John asked. 

"Why would I do that?"

"Why would you drag us to this flat and hold us at gun point?" John asked.

"I just want to know what you know about my operation," said Sebastian. "And Sherlock Holmes, of course. You two are the only people in the world that can give me both."

"And you've, what, brought us here to talk?" John asked.

"How else?" Sebastian asked. "We're not animals here, Dr. Watson, Dr. Hooper."

"So, we'll be off, then," Molly said quickly as she stood up.

"Ah, thought we might hit that snag," Sebastian said, pointing his revolver till Molly returned to her seat. "See, I'm civilized. No reason to have any more blood or tears than absolutely necessary. And I'm patient. I can wait till you're willing to gab, sure. No need for drugs or death, as far as I'm concerned. But until I have what I want, you two won't be going anywhere."

"How do you mean?" John asked. "We'd, what, stay here?"

"I've got a lovely number to be your host. Two beds in the guestroom. All yours. 'Course, if you try to leave, you will be shot. Just a matter of principle, of course."

"You're just going to keep us?" Molly asked.

"Or you can tell me everything, and I'll let you go."

"Right, yeah, sure you will," John said. "Or you'll shoot us in the head."

"And why would I do that?"

"This is the man who left people to starve to death," John said. "Can't imagine what he has planned for us."

"You should take your tea," Sebastian said. "Before it gets cold. As for me, I've got other things to be getting on with. But I'll be back here for tea tomorrow, love."

He collected himself, put on his shoes, and turned to leave as John and Molly shared incredulous looks on the couch.

As he turned, Molly grabbed the teapot and yanked off the lid. In one solid throw, she cracked the pot across the back of Sebastian's neck, allowing the boiling water to spill across his beck and upper back.

John was right behind her. Sebastian staggered into a large chair, which put his head just low enough for John to crack it with his gun. Sebastian fell to the floor, dazed and blistering.

The two lackeys came in from the other room. The man was first, gun ready to fire. Molly chucked the lid of the pot at him, but she missed horribly. John tried to knock her out of the way before the man fired - 

It sounded like a bone breaking under force, followed by three muffled screams from the masked man's mouth. His body fell sideways into the wall opposite the window, which had shattered inward.

Molly and John backed away from the remaining lackey, the masked woman, who had a Glock on them. She took a plastic bag and threw it over Sebastian's head, wrapping a cord around his neck for good measure.

John tried to put everything together: the shots were fired from outside, so she must be working with a partner. She was suffocating their enemy but that certainly didn't make her a friend.

Once Sebastian was unconscious, she ripped the bag open. 

"What do you want?" Molly demanded. "What do all of you want? Who are you people?"

"Listen, my name is Riley, and all I want is _out_. Your detective friends will be here soon. You can wait for them here, or you can push off. I recommend the latter. Whatever you do, do not follow me."

Keeping her gun up, she backed out of the flat. 

As soon as she was gone, Molly checked the fallen man's pulse. Begrudgingly, John followed her lead and checked Sebastian's.

"He's dead. Shot with a very large caliber bullet," Molly said.

"Moran's alive," John said. "I'm gonna tie his hands, just in case." 

So, Molly and John waited in the flat as the sound of sirens became overwhelming.

 

Donovan sat with Molly in Lestrade's office as he took another go at John Watson.

"It won't be much longer," Donovan said, almost sympathetically. "Sebastian Moran is wanted for questioning in three countries. For criminal conspiracy and other charges in a few more. Nobody's questioning why you had him bound and unconscious."

"Then what are you questioning us about?" Molly asked, exhausted.

"John met with a woman called Isabelle Hennessy. Do you know who that is?"

"No," Molly answered honestly.

"Hennessy is an alias. Her real name is Indigo Kendall Berwyn. Do you know who that is?"

Molly nodded. "Of course I do. She, uh, John mentioned her. Said he wanted to find her because of what she did for Sherlock."

"Huh," Donovan said. "And this trip to Edinburgh. Care to explain?"

"Love to but I don't know myself. There was a lead... We thought it would lead us to the man who attacked me, and we were right."

"That's Gregory Wendell? The real Gregory Wendell, I mean," Donovan said.

"Yeah."

"And the woman who bagged Sebastian Moran. She said her name was Riley?"

"She did. But like I said, we didn't see her face."

"Wendell's wife's name is Riley."

"You think the man who attacked me, his wife is the person who saved us? That doesn't make any sense."

"That's not the only thing," Donovan said. "Dr. Hooper, I need to know. Is Sherlock Holmes alive?"

"That'd be nice," Molly replied. "I'm a pathologist. I don't investigate or any of this rubbish. Oh, sorry I didn't mean to... not that investigation is rubbish, just... I mean, I do post-mortems. I don't run around with guns and plastic bags and... it'd be nice, if Sherlock was here. He'd know what to do. He'd say horrible things, but he'd put it all together."

"Sorry, but you didn't answer my question. Is Sherlock Holmes alive?"

"'Course not," Molly replied. "Is that what this is about?"

Donovan didn't answer.

 

John Watson woke up the next day in his own bed. His memory was foggy, but he had half a mind to give to Sherlock for all the trouble. So he stumbled downstairs to his bedroom door. 

It was only after he pushed it open that he realized that Sherlock wasn't there. Instead, Molly Hooper slept soundly in his place.

As quietly as he could, John backed out of the room and closed the door. As he became more alert, he realized that he hadn't heard from Sherlock since the day before, when he sent the two of them to Lestrade. He had specifically told them that he was following up a lead, and John was sure he mentioned contacting them later. 

The clock read eight in the morning. So clearly, it was later, so where the hell was he?

Having no other recourse, John picked up his mobile and called Mycroft.

"Mycroft Holmes," he answered.

"It's John."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. So's Molly. But we've not heard from Sherlock since yesterday, before they captured Moran."

"Is that unexpected? He is supposed to be hiding, you know."

"Maybe, but I expected him to come back and explain everything over again," John said. "Telling me how it's obvious that the woman who saved us was Wendell's wife because she tucked the left pant leg into her shoe or something."

"What?" Mycroft asked. "That's not a deduction."

"No, no. Lestrade told me one of Moran's men, Wendell, his wife had the same name as the woman who helped us," John replied. "I assumed Sherlock would show up and fill in the blanks. Give Molly the clear to go back to work. That kind of thing."

"It's true my brother has never missed an opportunity to show off," Mycroft said. "He didn't mention anything?"

"No, just a lead he was looking into. If it wasn't from you, must be from the homeless network. He showed me how his communication with them goes. I can touch base, retrace his steps - "

Mycroft interrupted, "Don't worry about this, John. I'm sure he'll turn up with ridiculous facial hair and a bad suit as soon as he gets the chance."

"I'd rather know where he is," John replied.

"If I discover anything, I will contact you. In the meantime, it might be prudent to cease contact, lest we draw the suspicions of Gregory Lestrade again."

"Right, of course," John said as he hung up.

 

Mycroft hesitated before hanging up. John Watson had often bridged the gap between the Holmes brothers, listening to Mycroft when Sherlock wouldn't take his calls. The man gave him a broad insight, a compass direction, on his younger brother's current condition. And though he assured John nothing was amiss, a knot had formed in his stomach. 

It _wasn't_ like Sherlock to miss a chance to tie a case together. Certainly not with Molly and John both wrapped up in the situation. 

He didn't know, and couldn't know, where his brother was.

 

About an hour after the call between Mycroft and John, Sherlock Holmes came-to. 

He couldn't remember what happened... his first thought was using. He'd fallen back on drugs more than once during his 'death' to dull the senses when he didn't have a case.

 _No_. He was working a case. Closing in on Sebastian Moran, actually. But his memories were all frayed and broken, like a bad hang over. If it wasn't his own drug use, than someone must've knocked him out or drugged him. He quickly iterated through the affects and concluded the likely drug used was some form of GHB. 

Sherlock moved. Dust and dirt cascaded around him. His wrists ached and felt chaffed, but there was no rope burn. Someone slipped him a drug and bound him to transport him somewhere. That didn't add up to anything good. He tried to lift his head. Everything ached. 

As he took stock of his location, he slowly came to realize that someone had stuffed him inside of a wall. He had a nagging sensation that that person was the last person he spoke with before he blacked out: the Engineer.


End file.
